Star Drops Falling
by Wabii Sabii
Summary: While on a mission, Aizawa finds a young girl left for dead. With no memory of who she is or where she came from, he's left with no choice but to host her until the pieces start to fall into place— but time proves that some questions are best left unanswered.
1. Crimson

If this doesn't work out, you all have permission to snipe me. Sorry. I'm really bad at commitment. My mind is garbage.

This story will have some gore and things of the sort. It'll be dark. Expect a lot of hyphens.

This was inspired by the greats. _Human Shaped Constellation_ (jngsjngs)._ Of Heroes, Blood, and Boba (Marshmellowtime). Meraki (You Are So Wonk)._ Make sure to check them out, they're leagues better than this.

* * *

_"Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up."_

* * *

**i. crimson**

* * *

"It's a simple mission. A quick bust, in and out. We don't want this to become a huge thing, so can we count on you to keep it under wraps, Eraserhead?"

The man grumbled and grouched, pulled at the bandages swathed around his neck and fixed the golden goggles over his eyes.

"Yeah," he eventually replied. He tapped his ear radio a few times just to make sure it was working; a bad idea, he had learned moments later, when the feedback screeched in his ear and sent him reeling. Eraserhead groaned and dipped his head, black strands flittering around him like a curtain.

So this was life as he knew it.

Being a hero in of itself wasn't an easy job. It was a shared dream of society, yet few could do it. Even less could do it _well_. The spotlight and attention that coincided with a generous paycheck and constant praise would get to most people's heads. Eraserhead had witnessed it. The legacy most aspiring heroes created crumbled apart just as quickly all because of a little bit of ego.

Which is why he decided to become an underground hero. An enigma to society, an unknown. It was ideal for his power as well as his personality and comfort.

It was a life far simpler than the ones of the heroes who clawed for a spot in the top ten. Eraserhead didn't need to go out of his way to prove that he was good at what he did. He didn't need to impress anyone. As long as he got the job done, that's what mattered the most. Or at all.

He was called in for a sudden mission. Some sort of trafficking business, drug bust, something along those lines. He wasn't paying very much attention to the case itself as his mind was in other places. When he could go home, for example. He hadn't gotten much rest the night before for one reason or another and was keen on returning to the safety of his bed.

Here he was now. Crouched down on the ledge of a roof that overlooked the entire city of Musutafu. It was hard to see specific details in the shroud of darkness that came with nighttime, but the flickering lights and sounds of car horns honking created a buzz of life that was to be expected of a metropolis. The alleyway beside the building he was on top of was dead. Eerily so. Eraserhead remained still and unmoving as he listened carefully for any sign of suspicion.

Beyond the low hum created by Musutafu's nightlife, he heard nothing.

"You're clear to go," the voice over the radio confirmed.

Eraserhead sucked in a deep breath and lunged forward.

He made it to the other roof and tumbled over himself before immediately bounding to his feet. He paused and waited again— it was more so out of instinct than protocol at this point— before deciding it was safe to advance.

Keeping his stance low, he quickly made his way to the skylight. Stray rays of moonlight filtered in below. A bit of a disadvantage, but not one he couldn't live with. His fingers curled underneath the edge and he lifted the glass with little effort. Eraserhead poked his head over the ledge, eyes narrowed. Not even the moonlight fully penetrated the darkness of the warehouse. It was as if the interior had swallowed it whole like some sort of beast, and he was next.

Eraserhead tied his capture weapon around a nearby vent and tugged on it a few times to make sure it was secure. Once he confirmed it was, he sat on the ledge and swung his legs over it, letting them hang. He took a moment to wrap a piece of his capture weapon around his waist before he took a deep breath and jumped off.

Using both hands, he managed to slow his descent until his feet touched a solid surface. Eraserhead immediately dropped to his knees and tugged on his makeshift rappelling rope, removing it from the pile of bandages that made up his scarf.

It was impossible to see in the dark. He hated the idea of using it a flashlight. He considered it a risk to himself and the mission, but he was left with little choice. A small light attached to a bracelet was one of the few items he requested for this mission; a just in case, something he knew would be handy despite his feelings towards it. With a simple flick of his wrist, it came to life with a bright blue glow.

Eraserhead made a slow circle around himself, shining the light everywhere to get an idea of his surroundings. The warehouse was falling apart. The glass windows were boarded up with slabs of rotting wood while vinery crawled up the walls like snaking tendrils. There was a distinct scent that wafted throughout the place, sour and acerbic and enough to make Eraserhead bury his nose into his scarf.

_Disgusting._

He took a few small steps forward. As he did, a small family of mice scurried out from underneath a wooden crate, squeaking madly. Eraserhead paused for a moment, but continued his way forward. He hopped over a barricade of boxes that collapsed as soon as his hand left them. There was nothing here. Nothing of interest, nothing that would require his innate paranoia to kick in and tell him _don't go there._ He threw his hand up to his ear radio to report this back and let the department know that either the criminals had left already, or that this lead was a false one—

But then he heard it.

It was quiet at first, hardly there at all, and Eraserhead almost thought that it was his weary mind playing tricks on him. He stilled. And he heard it again.

A gargle. Or at least, that's what it sounded like. Someone was choking on something. Eraserhead immediately shone his light in the direction of the sound, and didn't see anything initially, except red.

Small splotches that were arranged in a systematic manner. A path. Someone was bleeding and they were trying to get away. Eraserhead followed the path and grew increasingly concerned when the splotches became more like puddles. The gurgling had now fully penetrated his ears, stirred around in his mind and nestled itself as a memory he had a feeling wouldn't go away any time soon.

He was led to a few empty crates. When he pushed them to the side, he fumbled back in stunned horror.

It was a girl.

A little girl with a large and deep gash right across her throat. Blood bubbled and pooled underneath her, her hands and clothes stained with crimson. Her body jerked and convulsed and her eyes were wide with horror. Ice and lead were suddenly in his veins. Eraserhead was frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight before him as his stomach twisted and churned. His mind was blank, but somewhere deep in there, his thoughts were swirling and spinning like a hurricane.

"O-Oi!" His fingers reached his radio. "Get an ambulance, _now!_ There's someone here with a severe injury and if she doesn't get medical attention, she'll—"

Die.

She'll _die_.

And as a hero, death happened so often the mere concept had become diluted to him. But this? This was a little girl, a child who had simply been caught up in the wrongdoings of a few scum because she didn't know any better and the world didn't care even if she did.

Eraserhead, though typically calm and level headed because being a hero called for it, was now panicking. It was more inward; on the outside his breathing had become a bit labored and his brows were pulled together, but he looked _fine_. No one could tell unless they knew him exceptionally well, and that was limited to a very small few.

His mind immediately went to all the first aid and rescue lessons that had been taught to him in high school almost religiously. Apply pressure. He quickly tore off his sleeve and knelt down beside the girl. His knee dipped in the puddle created by her own blood and his skin was soon to be drowned in red as he pressed the fabric gently against her throat.

Blood, blood.

_So much blood._

Her lips moved slightly, but the only sounds that came out were spine chilling spurts of unidentifiable attempts at speaking and strangled breaths of desperation. The black fabric of his sleeve had turned a dark red but Eraserhead didn't relent. Acid burned the roof of his mouth and tongue but he refused to lose it in front of this girl. He had to remain calm, a silent reminder or sign of hope that she would be okay.

But her eyes were turning dull, and Eraserhead knew he was losing her, and that's when he realized all the hope in the world would do nothing for this girl.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You're okay."

He struggled to figure out if he was speaking to her or himself.

His senses had dulled by the time flashes of red and blue shone in through the windows and exposed doorways. He had shut himself off from the world to prevent from falling deeper into this pit of despair and terror; his hands were trembling and his entire body was littered with goosebumps, but he didn't notice or care.

"Eraserhead!"

The call for his name went unnoticed. He vaguely felt a hand grip his shoulder, but everything was a bit of a blur after that. He looked down at his stained hands. Red, red, red. And he wasn't sure what to do after all of this, but there was one thing he knew was absolutely certain:

He was scared.


	2. After Dark

_"Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire." _

* * *

**ii. after dark**

* * *

Aizawa could have blamed his dislike of hospitals on the generally bad experiences he's had each time he went to one. They were considered facilities of rest and rehabilitation, areas that promoted life and well being, and yet, it seemed death always encroached on the unsuspecting and struck everyone else.

Aizawa _hated _hospitals.

Yet, here he was, sitting outside a room while surgery on a kid he didn't know was being performed. He initially couldn't figure out why his leg was shaking so badly, or why he felt so damn cold even after drinking a coffee and asking— well, _demanding_— a nurse to bring him a blanket (which she did, with a quivering gaze and hesitation). Then, he remembered what happened earlier and it all came back to him.

A girl was found with her throat slit.

She was bleeding severely, struggling to talk and breathe.

And with how much blood he saw and touched and _smelled_, he decided he hated the color red.

Though his body was exhausted, his head falling back against the wall behind him, his mind refused to grant him the mercy of sleep. The events kept repeating each time he closed his eyes. The scent of rotting. The sounds the girl made. The myriad of thoughts and emotions that coursed through his system and made his world spin. It was impossible to catch a break after that.

Aizawa groaned and ran his hands down his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees and began to twiddle his thumbs. Busy work, really, just to prevent his mind from imploding.

When the doors to the emergency room swung open, Aizawa immediately sat up straight and turned his head to the man who stood before him. He looked exhausted, but that was to be expected. It was almost three in the morning. But he smiled, and nodded his head.

"She's okay."

In that moment, Aizawa felt the weight of the world leave his shoulders.

* * *

I was in some kind of room.

With how silent and bright everything around me was, I entertained the thought that I had died and gone to heaven or hell or whatever otherworldly realm my soul belonged to. I thought that I had met my end in the back of some abandoned warehouse, and the man who appeared at my side with a bright light burning into my retinas was some sort of angel, albeit a very twisted and mildly disappointing one.

It was then that a nettling voice pushed itself to the front of my thoughts, having emerged after a split second of clarity I wasn't even aware I had.

_You've been through this before._

It was far more distorted and unsettling than I would've liked, perhaps a disturbing remnant of my past life. I wouldn't know. My memories of who I was before my first demise were ultimately veiled by a dense cloud of fog that made it impossible for me to recall anything aside from a few bits and fragments. I gathered what I could and tried to put together any pieces as they fit, but everything in between was empty. It was like trying to complete a five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle, except the box only came with three measly pieces.

The only thing that told me I hadn't died a second time was the fact that, of the few things I _did_ remember from my old life, pain upon dying was not one of them.

And right now, I was in _agony._

I could feel each muscle in my small body pleading for any form of relief. It was as if cement blocks had been tied to each limb and I was forced to run with them. My lungs ached and struggled to take in oxygen at a normal and steady rate; breathing in of itself felt like a herculean task, and one I had to be conscious of, because apparently my mind wasn't working how it should be.

But nothing hurt more than my neck. It was incredibly sore, so much so that I had a feeling that if someone poured acid directly down my windpipe, _that_ would hurt less than this. It burned with every little movement from either myself or the environment around me; the slightest breeze would blow from someone walking past me and my throat would react violently with a surge of pain that forced me to squeeze my eyes shut to cope with it.

I was in far too much pain to consider the reality and weight of my anomalous situation— reincarnation, as some would put it— but if it meant anything, it was that I had been given a second chance at life by some mystical force or the universe itself. Why? I couldn't answer that for sure, but something about it felt like a mistake.

Because quite honestly, so far, it wasn't going too well for me.

* * *

Aizawa trudged into the room with a distinct drag in his steps. Truth be told, he wasn't exactly ecstatic to be in the ER, where lives were lost most frequently. It didn't settle well with him. Dread had now fixated itself deep within him and all he wanted was to leave. Go back home and sleep for as long as the world would let him. Meaning that if it was forever, he certainly wouldn't mind.

When he stepped into the room, his shoulders slumped in relief to see the girl sitting up in her bed. She looked comfortable surrounded by thick sheets and fluffy pillows. Her gaze remained on the window outside, and out of curiosity, Aizawa shifted his eyes to see what was so interesting. The sky was still dark, Musutafu's nighttime landscape incredibly familiar to him, but the hysteria of recent events created some sort of haze that almost made him think he was elsewhere.

The girl's body was covered in bandages, and around her neck was some sort of collar that a small tube extended from. She was dressed in typical hospital robes, fitted to accommodate her size, considering she was so young. Aizawa thought she couldn't be older than five years old. Her pale hair fell in messy waves to her shoulders, her eyes a light shade of green. Wide and innocent, lacking any of the fear present when he first met her. Aizawa inhaled a deep breath.

"Hon?" the doctor asked. He slowly approached the girl and she turned her attention to him. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"

She nodded.

"How much on a scale of one to ten? One being little to no pain, and ten being a whole lot of pain."

She held up ten fingers. Aizawa winced. The doctor offered a gentle smile and patted her head.

"Well, you went through something very scary tonight," he said. "You're very strong, you know. And Mr. Aizawa here is the one who found you. He saved your life."

The underground hero was wholly unused to receiving any sort of recognition or even a thanks. It was uncomfortable, and this was evident in the way he rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"I was just doing my job," he mumbled.

"Even so, it's because of you that this girl gets to see another day," the doctor chuckled. By looking a bit closer at him, Aizawa could see tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. "My apologies— I have two young daughters myself. I'm just thinking about them if _they_ were in this situation."

Aizawa offered no response, instead just shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, in any case, she can't talk right now, and she'll have a bit of trouble with breathing regularly. She'll have to be given a feeding tube for the time being, but she should be good to go in about two weeks, maybe less." The doctor's face fell slightly. "Although, she'll be left with quite the scar. Whoever did this to her obviously had the intent to kill. Who would ever do such a thing…?"

Aizawa asked himself the same question while he was waiting. He had learned the hard way that people carried all sorts of evil with them. This society that further defined and also blurred right and wrong amplified that. Aizawa looked at the girl and saw the uncertainty she carried in her eyes, coupled with fear that made a twinge of guilt strike his heart.

"The world is messed up," he said, pulling a bit at his scarf. He knew that better than anyone. "Thanks, doc."

Watching him turn on his heel with the intent to leave, the doctor reached his hand out, calling out for the hero.

"B-But wait!" he said. "What about the girl! Are you just going to leave her on her own?"

Aizawa snorted and glanced over his shoulder. His wilted gaze flickered to the girl and for a moment, they made eye contact. He tore away just as quickly.

"I'm a hero, not a babysitter. You guys can figure something out, I'm sure. See ya."

* * *

My inability to speak made this situation far more frustrating than I could have imagined. I felt like a puppet, and the uncanny feeling of not being able to physically convey what was in my head was driving me over the edge.

That, however, did not take my attention away from the man clad in all black. Aizawa was his name. He didn't look very imposing, rather unimpressive overall, but considering he was the one who saved my life, I found it unfair for me to cast such judgments over him.

He made sure to keep his distance, staying close to the room's door as if he was ready to leave at any moment. I noticed the small twitches in his form that showed that at several points during this encounter, he really _was_ ready to leave, but likely only stayed out of politeness. Though his expression remained stoic and blank, his eyes would ever so often drift in my direction. We would make eye contact, and he would look away. The discomfort was apparent, but I couldn't blame him for wanting to get away.

If I were to be honest, I wanted to run away, too.

I knew that my life was going to become a lot more complicated after this. Not that I had much of a life at all— as it stood, it had only begun _again_ four short years ago. The thing about this new life was that I had no recollection of any previous event. Trying to recall anything, including my assailant, was difficult and taxing and was giving me a gnawing headache. It was like a block had been placed between now and everything that happened before I woke up. I wasn't sure if this was because of the trauma, or some side effect of reincarnation.

It also didn't help that my future was now shaky at best. Whatever happened to me would be left up to the adults, and I was worried that said adults wouldn't care enough about me to consider an option for me other than an orphanage. With everything I had just gone through, being thrust into a cramped home filled with children just as messed up as I was terrified me more than anything.

I didn't want to become another statistic, nor did I want to end up being another traumatized kid who the system couldn't help due to its glaring issues that no one bothered to fix. The final time he looked back at me, I don't know if he saw it, but tears pricked painfully at my eyes as everything slowly began to dawn on me.

_Please don't go_, I pleaded in my head, but he disappeared behind the doorway, and I suddenly felt the weight of the world crash upon my shoulders.


	3. Faded Echoes

_"It's better to regret what you did, than regret what you didn't do." _

* * *

**iii. faded echoes**

* * *

Aizawa didn't sleep much.

His thoughts continued to linger on the girl and the point when he encountered her. He felt a great deal of shame for allowing himself to be this badly affected; it had been two years since he graduated from high school and subsequently began his heroism and he should've been _used_ to it all by now. He's encountered injured civilians, people who were attacked and suffered grievous injuries, ruthless drug lords who would chop someone's head off with no hesitation. There would be times where he'd languish over how fucked up humans were, sure, but this was something completely different.

She was just a child.

She was a child who was left to _die_.

He constantly wondered who did that to her, and why. What could be so threatening about a four year old that they were given such a gruesome injury? In that case, he had missed the villains by a few seconds; if he had taken the mission more seriously, he likely could have caught the scum _and_ rescued the girl from this.

Saving her from the brink of death wasn't enough. Aizawa felt like he had failed in his duties as a hero, underground or not.

It was past five in the morning when his body finally gave in to the physical, emotional, and mental strain of his mission. The first glimmer of sunlight introduced itself to the previously navy blue sky, creating a mixture of purple, pink, and yellow that was most prominent near the horizon. Stars began to extinguish themselves as morning time finally arrived. His bloodshot eyes struggled to stay open, but eventually, he could no longer fight off the temptations of sleep.

That night, he dreamt that he drowned in a pool of red.

* * *

"You're not lookin' too hot, Aizawa."

There simply wasn't enough coffee in the world.

Aizawa tramped into the police force headquarters with a certain aura to him that made everyone he passed by turn the other way. A few whispers and nervous glances were sent his way, but Aizawa couldn't conjure up the energy to care. Not even after his fourth cup of coffee that he finished by the time he stepped through the automatic doors of the main office.

A panel of detectives and pro heroes awaited him. They all sat at a long table, suits crisp and pristine, a severe contrast to Aizawa's tattered black shirt and pants. He had long since stopped caring about his appearance— when he let out a yawn he hardly considered the fact that a few angry grimaces were shot in his direction— before settling down in an empty seat beside the one person he gave a _semblance_ of a fuck about.

The man's lips curved upwards into a knowing smile, amber eyes gleaming with a flicker of mischievousness. Aizawa, who was cranky and irritable and running on three hours of sleep, plagued with nightmares on top of that, didn't bother to entertain him.

"Sekijiro, _don't_," he warned, sending his former classmate a sharp glare that could kill if it was a knife. "I'm not in a good mood."

"I can tell," Sekijiro half chuckled, running his hand through his silver hair. "What's got you so grouchy? Well, more than usual."

They were friends. Or at least, as close to being friends without _actually_ being friends. Because Aizawa didn't really do the whole buddy buddy thing. Hizashi was an extraordinary exception, but that was mostly because he forced himself into Aizawa's life and has stuck by his side since. Sekijiro, on the other hand, was far more tolerable than his other classmates. He never tried too hard to get to know Aizawa. Their relationship bloomed naturally, and they certainly weren't _best friends_, but Sekijiro was someone who Aizawa wouldn't mind grabbing coffee with.

That being said, though he trusted his former classmate and fellow hero, he wasn't exactly keen on pouring out everything he's been feeling for the past twenty four hours. There was just too much to unpack, and Aizawa— someone who's hardly ever had to tackle his own emotions— couldn't even begin to _comprehend_ the chaos in his head.

_Bottle it in._

He sighed.

_It'll go away eventually._

"Nothing," he responded with a short huff, turning away from the bigger man. "Is this meeting going to start soon?"

Luckily, whatever god or deity was up there decided to answer his prayers. Another man stepped through the doors, his dark hair and solid black eyes scanning the entire office before he gave a firm nod in satisfaction.

"I apologize for the lateness, everyone," he said, bowing at his waist. "I got caught up finishing up some other reports."

As he took his seat diagonal from Aizawa, the man at the head of the table grouched. His gray hairs and the prominent forehead wrinkles were prominent signs of his age, and quite frankly, Aizawa was slightly surprised the old geezer was still kicking.

"I've called this meeting to discuss the string of kidnappings around the city," the man began, tapping his hand against the table. "We still haven't found the bastards committing these crimes."

"The victims found have been between the ages of four and fifteen. As of now, there have been eleven cases," another man brought up. He shuffled a series of papers in his hands— files of the victims. Aizawa managed to catch a glimpse of one of the papers as the detective thumbed through the pile, and seeing, in bright red lettering, the word _DECEASED_ on one made his throat tighten. He averted his gaze at light speed.

"There's no telling for sure what purpose or reasoning there is behind these kidnappings," a third detective sighed. "Especially since most of the victims are… no longer with us."

Dead. Killed. Rotting somewhere six feet underground, if they were lucky enough to be found.

"But there is one."

Aizawa bit his lip. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists underneath the table until eight fingernail shaped imprints decorated his palm. Sekijiro tilted his head slightly, eyes focused on the man beside him.

"Eras—"

"Yeah." Aizawa finally opened his eyes and lifted his head. "The one I found last night. Her throat was slit and for the time being, she's unable to talk. There's no information about her aside from her age. Four years old. She's currently in the hospital recovering."

"No name?" another voice somewhere in the far end of the room asked.

"No," Aizawa answered. "Not that I know of."

"But she can still communicate with us," the police chief said. "Eraserhead, Vlad, Tsukauchi. I want you three to head to the hospital and gather as much information from that girl as you can. She could be the key we need to solve this shitstorm."

People were getting antsy. The masses, paranoid. Children were disappearing at an alarming rate and no one felt safe anymore. It put even more pressure on the police and the heroes to figure out what the hell was going on.

Aizawa wanted no part of it.

He was tired. Running on autopilot. He felt sick and cold and he wouldn't be surprised if he suddenly collapsed right then and there.

The rest of the meeting went by like a blur. Aizawa had long since tuned it out, and his mind seemed to focus on the family of birds outside, right past Tsukauchi's head. They chirped and tweeted, flew in circles and loops before landing in their nest for a short break. A part of Aizawa wanted to fly with them, but he was stuck _here_, in a stuffy room filled with old men while he still continued to repeat the memories of the night before.

_Fuck._

"That's the end of this meeting. You three, do what you have to do."

Aizawa launched out of his chair before the sentence even finished. He was the first out of the room, hands deep in his pockets and nose buried in the folds of his scarf. He didn't care, and he especially didn't want to return to that damned hospital. _Go home go home go home go ho—_

"Eraser."

He stopped in his tracks. Aizawa ignored the goosebumps on his skin and fought back the urge to turn on his heel and run away as Tsukauchi approached him with hurried steps.

"Are you alright, Eraserhead-san?" the detective asked, readjusting the fedora that sat idly on his head.

"Fine," Aizawa grumbled. "Let's just go."

Just as he turned on his heel, a hand gripped his shoulder, and that alone was almost enough to make Aizawa _lose it_. When he whirled around, he found himself facing Sekijiro. A styrofoam cup was in man's hands that he didn't hesitate to shove toward Aizawa.

"What're you—?"

"You look like you need it."

Sekijiro just smiled and walked off. Tsukauchi tailed after him, leaving Aizawa in the empty, cold lobby of the headquarters. When he took a sip of the drink he was given, he immediately felt his nerves calm down as the warmth seeped into his system and settled in his stomach. It was his fifth cup that morning, but Aizawa didn't care. Although, Sekijiro made the drink a little sweet.

Aizawa always, _always_ took his coffee black.

* * *

When I awoke that morning— or maybe it was the afternoon, there was a cloud over my mind and I couldn't exactly tell the time— I felt slightly better physically, but the stress from the night before carried over and any bit of optimism fragmented into nothingness.

Just a few minutes after my eyes made contact with the stray sunlight, a nurse came into my room, pushing a cart filled with a series of items, though I couldn't figure out what they were. She smiled brightly and picked up one of the items, a bag filled with some sort of liquid, and crossed the room to get to my bed.

"Good morning, sweetheart!" she greeted with a chipper tone. "How are you feeling this morning? Any pain?"

I gave her a thumbs up. My hand instinctively made its way to my throat and I gently traced my jawline, down to my chin, and brushed my fingers over the top half of my throat.

"Try not to touch your neck, honey," the nurse told me. "You're still healing."

I nodded listlessly. Breathing was still troubling; I felt like up until this point I had taken advantage of the fact that it was left up to my brain, but with this tube in my throat there wouldn't be any oxygen entering through my nose and mouth. The air was dry and made my throat scratchy, and this entire situation was made even worse by the fact I wouldn't be able to talk while I was recovering.

As the nurse changed the bag for my IV feeding tube, she began to ramble about some medical stuff; how I would be in recovery for about a week and I would have to relearn how to talk and swallow and a bunch of other things I eventually tuned out. Her voice buzzed like white noise in my ears while my thoughts became a cycle of _what ifs,_ mostly in response to the repeated memory of me on that cold stone floor, choking on my own blood.

I shuddered.

When she finished speaking there was a knock on the door. The nurse called out a cheerful _Come in!_ and a man stepped into the room. I tilted my head up just to look at him. He was _massive_ in both height and physique, built like a tree, which made the other man who came in after him look like a mere stick in comparison. He had a mild underbite that exposed his lower canines and I instantly thought of some sort of vampire. In comparison, the man by his side looked rather average— almost _too_ normal— and that made my newfound sense of paranoia and anxiety set of alarms in my head. I shrunk against my pillow and curled my pudgy fists tightly around the blankets.

"Oh my gosh! Vlad King!" the nurse gasped, her cheeks turning a visible shade of red. "W-What're you doing here?"

"We came to talk to her."

A gloved finger was pointed in my direction, and I pursed my lips, dubious.

"If we could get some privacy?" the man, apparently named Vlad King, requested. The nurse nodded skittishly and scurried out of the room, but not before staggering in her steps and clumsily muttering an apology before disappearing down the hall. Before I could even ask myself what happened, the question was answered, and that answer came in the form of all black and a brooding expression.

It was _him._

I would've held my breath if I could. Instead, I shifted my position in the bed and tried my best to find some comfort amidst the growing perturbation I was feeling.

"Hi there." The normal looking man was the first to step forward. He reached into his trenchcoat and produced a badge, flashing it at me for a moment before tucking it back into his pocket. "My name is Tsukauchi Naomasa. I'm a detective in the police force. You may also call me 'True Man'. These are my colleagues, Kan Sekijiro and Aizawa Shōta."

I nodded in understanding, though I was still unsure and a bit afraid of what they wanted with me. Tsukauchi reached into his coat again and produced a small notepad with a pen. He offered a small smile and handed the two items to me.

"We have a few questions for you. We know you can't talk right now, so if you could answer us with this?"

I bit my lip.

"First of all— what's your name?"

The gears in my mind began to whir again, clanking and spinning at the question that anyone should be able to answer at the drop of a hat. I had no memory of the events between my birth and now, no idea as to who attacked me or how I even got to the warehouse in the first place, nor did I know who I was. My name was as a mystery to me as it was to them, but my amnesia wasn't the worst part of this already messy situation.

I didn't know how to read or write.

I knew that literacy was the type of thing that people never forget once they learned. I figured even my amnesiac brain would know how to write out characters, if only a few. At this age I should've known how to say the alphabet and some numbers, but most especially write my name. I couldn't help them even if I wanted to.

I was mortified by the fact I was illiterate, downtrodden and even a bit angry that whatever brought me to this point apparently didn't have teaching me how to read and write in its plans.

With shame making my stomach curl, I gave the pen and notepad back to Tsukauchi, shaking my head. As expected of any detective, it didn't take very long for him to put two and two together.

"Can you not write?" he asked, brows slightly furrowed. I immediately shrunk. "Ah, that's alright. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions then?"

I shook my head again.

"I know this may be scary. We're just a bunch of adults who came out of nowhere. But we _really_ need your cooperation. That way, we can find the bad guy who did this to you and put him in jail. Do you understand?"

I did, I _did_, and I had absolutely no way of conveying that. The frustration I felt was immeasurable. As much as I wanted to scream and yell and tell everyone what I knew, or rather, what I _didn't_, the tube in my throat created a disconnection between the air I inhaled and my voice box. My mind thought of a million and one ways to fight back against these negative feelings that I knew were eating me up from the inside like poison, but the current circumstances— a large part of which was my four year old body— made the thoughts just that. Unfeasible ways to attain a better, more stable head space.

"Are you okay?"

A hand my shoulder gave me the awareness to acknowledge the fact that I was crying.

I touched my cheeks. Damp. I curled my fists and dug my nails into my palm.

My lips curled downward as a physical showcasing of the bubbling anxiety within me. The emotions I felt were all cycling within me, one by one by one, and then multiplying. Two, four, eight, sixteen—

_Damn it all._

"No memory, no name, can't even read or write…" Tsukauchi mumbled under his breath. He veiled his discomposure with a plastic smile and a light squeeze of my shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll figure this out."

I couldn't bring it upon myself to smile back.

_For someone nicknamed 'True Man', you're an awful liar._

* * *

"What are we going to do?"

Unlike Tsukauchi, who was obviously distressed, and Sekijiro, who couldn't stop shaking his leg, Aizawa was content. Perfectly so. Neither of his colleagues noticed this until they realized his tired voice had yet to make its way into the conversation.

"Any suggestions, Shōta?" Sekijiro asked. He straightened himself up to make himself seem even bigger than usual. Not that he had to. Truthfully, the three all felt rather small.

"None," Aizawa said. He didn't dare admit he wasn't trying to think of any.

"I'm worried about what will happen if we put her in an orphanage," Tsukauchi said. He paced back and forth, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the freshly waxed floor. His coat flapped behind him with each pivot he made, previously immaculate suit now crinkled, similar to the lines decorating his forehead.

"A child traumatized like that wouldn't be able to function properly in such an environment," Tsukauchi continued. He finally halted in his steps and sighed deeply. "And truthfully, Japan's adoption system isn't very forgiving."

"Well, we have to do _something_," Sekijiro huffed. "Once she's discharged in the hospital, there will be no choice for her _but_ to go to an orphanage. That'll make it even harder for us to question her."

"I know."

Tsukauchi bit his lip. Aizawa slid further down his seat.

"Aizawa," Sekijiro called. "Why don't you let her stay with y—"

"No."

A darkened gaze traveled across the lobby to meet amber. Sekijiro's lips pulled downward and his arms were soon locked over his broad chest. He knew Aizawa was detached, stoic, blunt and crabby, but he certainly wasn't _heartless._ He wasn't as cruel and bitter as he made himself out to be. And Sekijiro knew he had his reasons for presenting himself in such a way, but he also knew that every wall had its cracks.

"I have four dogs," the blood king began. "One of which is pregnant. Being in such a chaotic environment would likely stress her out more. Tsukauchi is rarely home enough as is, and there's no way he could leave her with Makoto. She's still only in high school—"

"So that automatically makes me the best candidate?"

Aizawa knew what Sekijiro was doing. He was having none of it.

"Who else can help her?!"

"I'm not adopting—"

"No one said you have to adopt her," Tsukauchi clarified. "Just host her. At least for a couple of weeks, until we can figure out this mess."

He plopped onto a chair and slipped off his fedora. The cloud of dejection that hung over them was overwhelming. Aizawa felt like he was suffocating. Or drowning. He struggled to decide which was worse.

"She's the only one of these children to have survived," Tsukauchi muttered. A dark reminder that was still painfully fresh in their minds. "If we can't do something to help this girl, then I'll consider it nothing short of a failure on my part."

Aizawa bit his lip. There were a few excruciating moments of silence before Tsukauchi readjusted his fedora and stood up. "I'll tell the girl we'll be seeing her tomorrow."

In his two years since he debuted as a hero, Aizawa figured the worst he'd have to experience was probably a hospitalization from fighting a dangerous criminal. Luckily, that had yet to happen, but all things considered, _babysitting_ shouldn't have been at the top of the list. And yet, here he was, mulling over a situation he shouldn't even be this invested in, having nightmares about a mission that was supposed to be a quick recon. He wasn't exactly the paternal type, but he wasn't some wicked, shallow person either.

Tsukauchi was right. The orphanage would likely harm the girl more than help her— especially since whoever did this to her would probably want to come after her, putting more than just her in a dangerous situation— and looking back at it, he truly _was_ the only one capable of looking after her. His home didn't have anything that would frighten her, and he was the one who found her. Chances are, she would respond best to him. _Just a few weeks_, he kept telling himself. He could swallow his pride for that long.

He was a hero. This meant he was committed to save people, but it also meant he couldn't save everyone. But Aizawa had found his little corner, stuck to the few lives he _could_ protect. And that girl was right there, part of it.

He stood up. Black locks fell around his face and his shoulders immediately slumped into its characteristic slouch.

"Aizawa?" Sekijiro asked. Aizawa held up three fingers.

"Three weeks," he grumbled. Tsukauchi released a deep sigh of relief. Sekijiro added his own reaction by smiling.

"I knew you had a heart."

Aizawa snorted.

* * *

By the time he began to regret his decision, he knew it had been too late. Aizawa rubbed the back of his neck while the Commissioner General stared at him with an incredulous gaze.

"Are you _sure_ about this, Eraserhead?" the older man questioned. His elbow had been propped up on the arm of his chair, cheek resting against his fist.

"If I'm being honest…" Aizawa sighed. "No. But I'll tack onto that by saying I've never truly been one hundred percent confident in my decisions. So."

"Well, you'll be making this shit a hell of a lot easier. I'll make sure you aren't put on priority call, so maybe you can get more time to get somethin' out of the girl."

In all sincere truth, that wasn't something Aizawa could complain about. It meant a bit less money, but it's not like he needed that, anyway. He could relax. Sleep in. It wasn't the worst news he's been told.

Far from that.

Aizawa shrugged his shoulders.

"Alright," he said. "Thanks."

He bowed his head and turned on his heel.

No other words had to be said.


	4. Paper Dolls

_"The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned."_

* * *

**iv. paper dolls**

* * *

"It isn't much, but you'll only be here for a few weeks."

I gazed around the room.

It was almost completely empty. A single bed was tucked in the corner, lacking a headboard. White sheets were spread across the mattress and there was a single pillow held up against the wall. There was a single window above the bed without curtains or blinds of any sort. The rest of the room was bare.

I nodded limply in response and shifted around. With only the hospital robes I was given, and a pair of measly socks that served as the only cover for my feet, to say I felt like a fish out of water would have been a severe understatement.

"Okay," was all I responded with. I had gotten the tube in my throat removed, making it so I could speak and breathe again, but a nurse would need to make regular visits for speech therapy to teach me how to swallow and talk normally. For now, I could only say a few select words, and never all at once.

"If you want, I can go out later to get you some proper clothes," my new guardian said. The entire time, he had yet to look at me. "'Till then, I guess you'll just have to wear one of my shirts."

I nodded again. For the first time, I didn't have much to say. I was still processing everything. I had been told by Tsukauchi on my last day of hospitalization that I would be staying with Aizawa while they figured out my situation. The relief I felt was quickly overshadowed by trepidation when I realized this would only be temporary. I feared that my fate would inevitably lead me down a miserable path.

"Make yourself comfortable." Aizawa gestured to the blank slate of a room. "If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen. My bedroom is next to this one, and the bathroom is diagonal from it." He vaguely motioned to each room. "Do you want soup or something? The nurses said you should avoid solid foods for now."

I shrugged.

Aizawa sighed.

"Alright," he said. "I'll make you some miso. Ever had?"

"No."

A low rumble erupted from his throat, his form of an adequate response. Aizawa nodded once before finally leaving the room. He also left me with my thoughts. The door closed with a soft _click_ and I slowly trudged to the bed, climbing on top of it and collapsing against the pillow. It was cold against my ear, nothing like at the hospital, but I didn't care.

I cried.

It was difficult to produce sound with my damaged windpipe, even harder to hold in the tears, but they absolutely refused to be contained. Grief had completely engulfed me, coupled with the stress of the situation and the fear of uncertainty in regards to my future. I was lost and _terrified,_ and I was here, sure, but that didn't mean I was any safer or closer to figuring out who I am or who I was.

I could feel the world whizzing past me through this all. And with this amnesia and fugue that left me questioning my own existence, I couldn't help but feel angry and a bit vindictive at whoever cursed me to go through a second life. I could only remember that I had been reincarnated, but anything beyond that one fact was vacant. My irritation knew no bounds.

I let it all out. I let my body jerk and twitch from the sobs that wracked my body, and the thoughts to all converge and snowball into a giant mess. I allowed myself to cycle through the vexation and spite, all the negative emotions that came with my current state of mind. I let myself feel it all and then some.

But I knew— I knew that I had to get myself together. I could feel as terrible as I wanted to, if I needed to, but I couldn't let that consume me. If I had to let it out, then I would, because I had to be kind to myself, but I also had to keep in mind that these tears would do nothing to help me. They wouldn't solve the mystery that was me, nor would they help me remember all that I've forgotten.

I was a child, yes, but only in body. I could make educated decisions, rationalize my thoughts, know between right and wrong, but most of all, understand that this wasn't the end of the world, but rather the beginning. I knew I had to take what I was given and do what I could with it. Mold it into something I could make sense of and call it mine, because the world had taken everything from me, and I'd be damned if I'd let it keep it.

Ripples turned into tides, crashing against shores of what is and what could be. I refused to be pulled under. These few moments of consciousness all but told me that life was a hurricane, but rather than fear the chaos, I embraced it.

Because I was in the eye of the storm.

* * *

Despite the fact he was cooking— supposedly— hearing her muffled weeps made Aizawa want to destroy his ear drums. He didn't find it particularly annoying or gnawing, as in, it wasn't anything like nails on a chalkboard, but hearing _anyone_ cry always made his stomach twist into knots. It was painful. He sighed as he leaned over the kitchen counter, head lowered and full of questions and thoughts. _Was this a good idea?_ was most prominent, followed by _I shouldn't have done this _and the occasional _This was a mistake._

Luckily, it didn't take long for her to finish crying. Aizawa kept his hearing focused. He heard her sobs cease and the quietude he was so used to living in had returned.

_Finally._

He worked quietly in the kitchen. Cooking was a skill he learned out of necessity once he realized he very much was going to live alone in this small apartment. It happened to come in handy with these specific circumstances, but it's not like he could have ever predicted this to happen.

By the time he added slices of tofu to the miso soup, he heard a door open, and his attention turned to the hallway. He could see the girl stepped out of the room's boundaries. Her eyes were puffy, cheeks and ears flushed with a shade of red.

She entered the kitchen, and tilted her head upwards to look at him. Pale tresses fluttered in front of her eyes, wild and individual strands sticking out in each and every direction. She had a bed head, and Aizawa, slightly amused, allowed the corners of his lips to lift slightly.

"Soup's almost done," he said. "Go ahead and take a seat."

The girl nodded once and made her way to the table opposite of the kitchen area, where two chairs were. She clambered clumsily into one, and sat leaning forward, her hands resting in her lap. Aizawa kept his back turned to her, but he could feel the girl's gaze burning into his neck. He figured she had a lot of questions— she was a child who was nearly killed and then suddenly thrust into some stranger's apartment— he'd be more worried if she didn't.

The girl looked up as Aizawa approached her, two steaming bowls in his hands, complete with soup spoons. Setting one in front of her, he nestled comfortably in his chair while the girl simply stared at tawny liquid before her.

"Are you gonna eat?" the pro hero grouched. The girl nodded and lifted the spoon, blew on the soup a few times, and stuffed it into her mouth.

"S'good," she mumbled.

"Mm."

They ate in silence. Aizawa's gaze never left her, while she kept her eyes directed at the food in front of her. She didn't rush eating it. She was actually rather careful, cautious; he noticed her trembling movements and Aizawa was left wondering if she's ever sat down to have a meal like this.

"You remember anything yet?"

The girl shook her head.

"Well… I guess it'll come eventually. We have to give you a name. I don't wanna call you 'girl' forever."

"Okay."

"Any you like?"

"No."

Aizawa clicked his tongue. He could appreciate that she wasn't picky, but he was equally dismayed that she was indecisive.

"Guess we can work on that, too," he muttered. The girl didn't budge. He felt the slightest hint of frustration tug at him, but it didn't take him very long for it to register in his mind— that he was practically the same way with others. He frowned, and then looked down at his soup. _Maybe it's time to be less tedious, Shōta,_ he thought begrudgingly.

"Got a Quirk?"

The girl lifted her head up in attention, for the first time meeting Aizawa's dark eyes. Pools of light green seemed to flicker with slight terror. Aizawa took note of this.

"I…" she started. "'Unno…" She paused. "You?"

"I can make most Quirks disappear by making eye contact," Aizawa explained. The girl's eyes widened. "Don't worry, it's not permanent. It lasts until I blink. It's called Erasure."

"Cool."

"It's a pain."

"Why?"

Aizawa pointed to his eyes. "I had to train myself to keep my eyes open for as long as possible to maximize the efficiency of my Quirk. Which is why I have dry eye all the damn time."

"Oh."

A bit of an underwhelming response, he thought, but it's not like something like that was at the forefront of his priorities.

"You… shouldn't say it's… a pain…" The girl said. Her voice was hoarse, and it was obvious she was straining to form her sentence. "'Cause… you saved me."

It was instantaneous, but Aizawa froze. He wasn't sure if the girl could see the way his muscles tensed, or if she noticed the quickest glint of shock that came over his face. She was right. It wasn't something he thought about often— something he wasn't able to, with all the crimson that constantly flashed in the back of his head— but if there was one good thing that came out of this, it was the fact that this girl was able to sit here now and eat a bowl of miso soup.

He glanced at the scar across her neck, an unsightly and vicious cicatrix that would certainly raise eyebrows, but somehow Aizawa knew that would be the least of her worries.

She was alive.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."

"Thanks."

"I was just doing my job, kid."

She shrugged. "Still, thanks."

Aizawa didn't dare say _you're welcome_, because that insinuated that him doing what he was supposed to do was some sort of privilege.

"Yeah," was what he settled on. The girl, for the first time, smiled. It was small, hardly there at all, but Aizawa would be lying if he said it didn't make him feel a little satisfied.

"Can we… have soup tomorrow?"

Aizawa stared at her now empty bowl. The knot in his stomach untwisted, and the vague sense of anxiety he had been feeling the entire time washed away. Standing up, he took her bowl and nodded.

"Sure, kid."

* * *

The next few days were spent like this. Aizawa had to get used to having another presence in his home, but he had found that the girl had the impressive capacity to take up no capacity at all. She remained distant at first, only ever coming out of her room to eat or use the bathroom before retreating to her bed again. Aizawa didn't mind. He _was_ starting to get tired of miso soup, though.

"I'll teach you to write," he said one night. The girl looked up from her soup bowl, blinking a few times at the man sitting across from her.

"'Kay."

Aizawa got up to fetch a pen and paper.

"Here," he said as he sat back down at the table. Clicking the pen, he pushed the paper toward her and slowly wrote a certain character.

"What's that say?" she asked.

"It means 'girl'," he said. "This is Hiragana, though. Kanji is a bit more complicated, so I'll teach you that another time."

"'Kay."

"Here. Try it out."

She pushed her bowl to the side and grabbed the paper. Staring at Aizawa's own handwriting, she tapped the pen tip against the table a few times before scribbling down the same characters and returning the paper to him.

"Oh—" Aizawa's head jerked back in surprise. "It's perfect."

"Thanks."

"Alright, here. Try this."

The mini lesson went on for an hour before Aizawa noticed the girl was slowly rocking from side to side, her sentences slurred and her eyes struggling to stay open. He said nothing. Instead, he stood up and lifted her into his arms— she was lighter than he expected— with her cheek immediately falling onto his shoulder, as if on instinct. Aizawa flinched slightly before promptly calming down.

"Let's get you to bed," he whispered. The girl responded with a soft grunt. He didn't realize that children need as much rest as they did. All part of the growing process, though he admittedly envied how easily they fell asleep, how easily they _stayed _asleep.

He gently placed the girl on her bed and she rolled onto her side. Pulling the blankets closer to her chin, he stopped when he saw her scar and the flashes all came back to him. _She's alive, she's alive. She's here. She's alive._

A soft sigh escaping his lips, he exited the room and returned to the kitchen. He stared at their bowls, both empty. He used to never like miso soup, wouldn't touch it even if he was paid to. Why, he wasn't sure, and here he was years later, eating it on a near daily basis. The taste was beginning to feel bland against his tongue, but for reasons he couldn't explain, the girl seemed to love it more than anything. Aizawa chuckled and lifted the bowls.

He would cook some tomorrow, too.

* * *

I had a nightmare.

I don't remember much from it, but that was to be expected. My eyes shot open and I sat up at breakneck speed, the final echoes of a scream ripping out of my throat. The fact I was able to produce the sound would have surprised me had I not been caught in the aftermath of a dream that felt all too real to be considered such.

There was red. Bright crimson flooded my vision before darkening my world. My breaths caught in my throat, fighting to escape, but I was too weak. Too pitiful, too small. I was being swept underneath the current— drowning.

"_So sad."_

When the red melted away, there was a death grip around me. A burning gaze bore a hole into my very soul. A massive hand pierced through me and I let out a horrifying screech, blood spilling from my lips, mixing with the tears that ran down my cheeks.

"_To think you had so much potential."_

I dreamt that I died.

Aizawa arrived in the doorway with startling urgency. I heaved and choked on the air my lungs were so hellbent on taking in, wholly unaware of the fact it was killing me. I couldn't breathe. I felt like the world was collapsing around me, imploding with millions of bursts of blinding light.

My vision was tunneled, hazy, while my body was set ablaze. My hands, desperate to hold on to something, found the sheets, and I clung to them for dear life, as my mind was struggling to discern what was a figment of my broken mind and what was a truth of this harsh reality.

"Calm down! You're having an anxiety attack— just _breathe_."

_It's okay._

The fire that flared to life underneath my skin settled before ultimately diffusing.

_You're okay._

I squeezed my eyes shut, somewhat hoping that when I opened them again, I would be in a soft bed I could call my own, waking up to two people who looked like me, the ones I would call Mama and Papa.

"It's alright."

It didn't take me long to realize it wasn't the bedsheets I was gripping, but rather, Aizawa's shirt. I looked up at him for a moment, just to get a glimpse of him. His black hair was tied into a haphazard bun, not a single strand getting in the way of his face. Though his expression was calm, neutral, even a bit jaded, I swore I could see the smallest hint of concern. Maybe he thought someone had attacked me. I didn't know.

I held onto him more than he held onto me, but that didn't matter. I just needed something to ground me.

"S-Sorry," I mumbled, forcing myself to fight through the sobs my throat began to release. I was tired of crying. And I hated that I couldn't stop.

"It's fine," he returned. "If you want tea or someth—"

"No." I shook my head. "M'fine."

"Alright."

Aizawa stood up, taking the security I felt along with him.

"Good night."

When he left, I collapsed back against the bed.

I've been here for two weeks now, and though I felt silly to admit it, a small part of me was starting to feel an attachment to Aizawa. He wasn't exactly the warm, comforting type, but his presence became a constant in my life I didn't want to lose. I still had no name, nor did I have any memories, but that didn't seem to be something that bothered him. When our days consisted of eating miso soup and finding solace in silence, I slowly began to realize how much I missed the warmth of the mundane.

I told myself it was fine to be afraid of the dark, that the sudden feeling of anguish slowly crawling within me was normal. I told myself that the moonlight was there to guard me, and if that wasn't enough, Aizawa was. I lulled myself into a false sense of safety with personal mantras I kept repeating over and over, hoping it would be enough to get me to fall back asleep.

It wasn't.

In addition to the nightmare that prevented me from closing my eyes for more than half a second, I could feel the first pangs of a headache emerge that almost completely solidified the fact I wouldn't be getting any more sleep. I stared at the blank ceiling, tracing imaginary shapes on what I imagined to be a canvas, but as time went on, the headache worsened. The shapes became warbled, distorted, until I was left unable to draw any more. I was writhing in agony from the excruciating pain that pulsated throughout my entire head.

It became increasingly clear that this life was hellbent on knocking me down; the confidence I had with tackling any adversary was quickly waning, and I was left defeated without even being able to fight in the first place. Another scream ripped through my throat as I clutched my head. It was _pounding_ and _throbbing_ with a pain I had never felt before. Like someone was repeatedly bashing it in with a hammer. My eyes began to burn as another wave of tears came.

The white noise in my head had evolved into a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds and clamor. It was a chorus of a discordant orchestra, caging my words and holding my sanity hostage. Wails and moans of torture mixed with panicked shouts, unintelligble words, and emotions that faded in and out and varying intensities. Anger, sadness, fear, hatred, guilt. But I also felt joy, happiness, relief, hope, and gratitude. It was pulling my heart in two different directions. Was I going insane?

_Was I dying?_

I hardly registered Aizawa's footsteps. It was buried within all the noise, only detectable because I knew _he_ was the one thing that made sense. I cracked my eyes open and saw his figure at the foot of my bed. A powerful surge of distress suddenly shot within me, and then, I heard a voice.

"_What the fuck is going on?"_

It wasn't my own.

* * *

Aizawa worried.

It was odd for him to admit because he usually never did. He was always someone who accepted everything as it was— tragedy occurred in all walks of life, something he himself had to come to terms with, whether or not he liked it. It didn't matter if he did or didn't, because Aizawa knew that in the end, nothing could be done to stop or help it. _It just is._ And Aizawa was quite content with _just is_.

The first time she screamed, he was awoken abruptly from his slumber. Aizawa threw his sheets off, immediately thinking someone had broken into his apartment and was trying to kidnap her. When he reached her room, he was relieved, albeit slightly annoyed that she had simply suffered from a nightmare. He's had plenty of those. But when he remembered she was just a four year old, and then realized she was having a panic attack, he instantly went to her side and tried to calm her down in any way he could.

_The kid's resilient_, he thought. Good. Someone who's been through what she has had no choice but to be. When her breathing evened out again, he left her to her own devices.

The next scream was even more alarming than the first. It only came about twenty minutes after, and Aizawa, having not fallen asleep, was quick to return to her room. He saw her twisting and tossing in pain, clutching her head until her knuckles were white.

"_What the fuck is going on?"_ he thought. The girl cracked an eye open, sobbing, whimpering. It was a plea for help.

"It hurts…" she choked out. "It hurts, _it_ _hurts."_

Aizawa threw on a jacket and pants, scooped her up in a blanket, and rushed to the nearest hospital.

It was four in the morning. The Pro Hero wasn't sure how long he's been awake at this point. Time had melded together into a giant blur that seemed to flash by at some points and slow to a still at others. He sent out a text to both Sekijiro and Tsukauchi, trying to keep his tone calm, but there was a sense of haste in his words. Sekijiro responded almost immediately, but by the time he arrived, Tsukauchi still hadn't even opened the message. Aizawa figured he must have been asleep.

"Any word on her?" the blood king asked as he jogged up to his former classmate, eyes wide and alert. Aizawa, sitting in a chair in the lobby, sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"None," he muttered, the slightest hint of defeat in his voice. Sekijiro exhaled and plopped down beside him.

"Damn," he said. "What even happened?"

"She started screaming and saying that she was in pain," Aizawa explained. Truthfully, he wasn't exactly sure himself. "I didn't know what to do."

"You did the right thing."

For one reason or another, Aizawa was tired of hearing that. He raked his fingers through his hair, biting back a sigh. It didn't _feel_ like the right thing. If anything, he felt more like he was failing with each step he took. Each attempt he made.

"You're being hard on yourself, Shōta."

Aizawa didn't look at him. He dropped his hand against his thigh and thumped his head back against the wall. Most of his bun had come unloose and his pants had a stain on it because it was a pair he forgot to wash. He was a mess.

The doors to the ER suddenly opened and both Aizawa and Sekijiro turned their heads to face the doctor who came out. It was a young woman instead of the middle aged man from before. She smiled kindly and held out her hand for them.

"Would you like to see her?"

Aizawa shot up.

* * *

"We performed a CT scan on her. We found something fascinating."

The doctor pointed to a black and white image of the girl's brain. Aizawa and Sekijiro hardly knew what it meant, but they allowed the doctor to continue.

"Her frontal lobe— we realized it's emitting a special energy. When she told us she was hearing voices that didn't sound like her own, we immediately assumed she was beginning to develop the first signs of some sort of psychosis— early onset schizophrenia— until she responded us. She got upset at one of our nurses, insisting she wasn't crazy, and we found out that nurse had thought that she was."

"What are you saying?" Sekijiro asked.

"It's her Quirk," the doctor said. "She has telepathy, or something along those lines. The pain she was experiencing was likely a result of all the sudden thoughts and emotions she felt. It was too much for her to handle all at once."

"Is she okay, though?" Aizawa further questioned, brows furrowed.

"She's fine. Once she gets a finer grasp of her power, she'll be able to live freely with it." The doctor sighed. "There is, however, something else we must tell you."

Aizawa held his breath.

"She has absolutely no memory of her life or identity before a few weeks ago. She's been diagnosed with dissociative amnesia. We couldn't find any signs of traumatic brain injury or illness, which leads us to believe it was caused by some sort of traumatic event she's witnessed or gone through."

Aizawa withheld the urge to roll his eyes. Anyone could have told him that. In spite of his mild irritation, he thanked the doctor with a dip of his head and let her point him in the direction of the room the girl was in. Sekijiro whispered that he'd stay out in the lobby.

Aizawa couldn't deny that the concern he felt had relaxed into something lighter and less daunting upon hearing she was okay. There was less stress on his expression, and he carried himself with a bit more of a straighter posture.

It had been two weeks since he decided to host the girl. She was quiet, mostly, never asked too many questions or made too many comments. She seemed perfectly contented with what she had, with what little Aizawa felt he had given her. Every day, a speech therapist would visit and do a few exercises with her to help her speak and swallow. _She's making good progress,_ he was told. As it stood, she's only eaten miso soup— she highly favored his— with tea and sometimes a fruit occasionally thrown into her diet. A part of him wanted to scold her for not eating anything more, but he'd give in to her wordless demands regardless.

When he saw her sitting in the hospital bed again, he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty that they were somewhat back to square one. He could see the solemn look on her face, the downcast shadow over her eyes. She looked up at him and her lips twitched, but the sadness never left. Aizawa knew, because there were many times he carried the same expression. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he strolled into the room, standing in front of the girl with his typical deadpan stare.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi."

"You okay?"

"I guess."

Sighing, Aizawa sat beside her. "So, you got your Quirk."

"Yeah." The girl slumped her shoulders. "I don't like it."

"I didn't like mine at first either, kid."

He glanced at her, eyes perusing her small form before realizing something was there that he hadn't noticed before. Creasing his eyebrows together, Aizawa reached over and brushed some of the girl's hair to the side.

"What…?"

Right on her forehead was a marking— a small purple rhombus that seemed to be imprinted on her skin, as if it was a part of her. He rubbed his hand over it and the girl recoiled slightly.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"You never had this before." The Pro Hero retracted his hand. "Maybe it has to do with your Quirk."

"Have what?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"You brought it up," the girl argued. "I'm gonna worry. What is it? Just tell me."

Aizawa grunted. "Some sort of marking. It doesn't look like a tattoo… odd."

"It just came outta nowhere?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." She was unbothered. "Can we go home soon?"

"Yeah. We just gotta get the go ahead."

"Mm."

The girl fell back against the bed. She closed her eyes and curled her fists around the bedsheets, seemingly drifting off to sleep, but somehow, Aizawa knew there was so much more going on in her head.

"Still hearing voices?" he asked. The girl nodded without opening her eyes.

"Not as bad," she mumbled.

"Good." Aizawa stood up. "I'm gonna talk to the doctors some more."

"'Kay."

He only took a few steps forward when he heard a sharp gasp. Aizawa immediately whirled around on his heel, a brow raised. The girl lifted herself into a sitting position, eyes wide in alarm, a thin layer of sweat glistening on her skin. She was trembling and her breaths were uneasy.

"What's wrong?" he asked. _No, not again—_

"My name."

Aizawa paused.

"My name is Kizuna."


	5. Zenith of Heartbeat

_"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."_

* * *

**v. zenith of heartbeat**

* * *

My head was killing me.

The pain had quickly established itself as a part of my daily routine. Sleeping became less of a necessity and more of a test to see if I could ignore the voices of the world around me. Naturally, the dark circles came. Insomnia was an aftereffect. Though the noise became quieter, more dulled, they were still an unceasing presence, constantly tormenting me in the back of my head.

When Aizawa told me he would be gone for a while the morning we returned home from the hospital, I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat. I suddenly realized that it would be the first time in two weeks we'd be away from each other. That fact alone made a pit form at the base of my abdomen. I almost begged for him not to go.

"You'll have someone looking after you in the time being," he told me. It was as if she was waiting for his cue; she burst through the front door with a smile so bright, I had to hold my hand over my eyes.

"Heyy~!"

She introduced herself as Nemuri.

Aizawa left grumbling a few incoherent sentences under his breath. I could hear his thoughts clearly, though, with the prevailing one being _Hopefully she doesn't kill the damn kid_. I held back a smile.

"Aren't you just the cutest thing?" Nemuri cooed. Her hands immediately went to pinch my cheeks. "What's your name, cutie?"

"K-Kizuna…" I stuttered, suddenly shy.

"Kizuna! How nice! How do you write that?"

I recoiled, almost immediately becoming consumed with embarrassment. My gaze drifted to the floor while my nerves swelled with the urge to combust.

"I, um… c-can't… read…" I mumbled. Aizawa had taught me a few basic characters, but aside from that, I still didn't know much of anything. Nemuri gasped and clapped her hands on her cheeks. She crouched down so that we were eye level, but this only made me want to run away and hide forever. Perhaps crawl into a deep, deep hole, and never come out.

"Aw, it's alright! Want me to teach you? We can go out and buy some books!" she suggested. I licked my chapped lips. Despite my terror of this woman, mostly due to the fact she was a ball of energy and I didn't know how to react, I could tell she had no malicious intent. Aizawa wouldn't trust her if she did, and I knew this because Aizawa trusted very few.

But—

She called me Kizuna.

I felt like there was an itch behind my eyes and I finally reached it when my name came to me. I was as relieved as I was sad, because although I had gained another piece in figuring out the mystery that was me, not knowing how to write it made me feel like it truly wasn't mine. It didn't make me feel any better in knowing that I was a hopeless amnesiac, but it didn't mean I was _helpless. _As many curveballs as life has thrown at me in a short span of time, I still wanted to make it my own. That included my name, among other things.

I told myself that I would push through the storm to see the rainbow at the end, and keeping my head up was the first step in seeing the clouds part. Aizawa was a part of that, and Nemuri would be, too— people who wanted to see me live as much as they wanted me to be alive. Whether or not they knew it, that meant more to me than anything else, and because of that, I was willing to fight for what I had. I knew I was stronger than the forces that opposed me. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.

I grasped Nemuri's hand, my small fingers curling around her palm. Looking up at her, I smiled.

The voices had gone silent, and for the first time, I could hear the birds singing.

* * *

Stress.

Aizawa had gone through plenty of it— perhaps too much— but he liked to think he became accustomed to it. Though inconvenient and irksome, he never complained about the throb in his head, lack of energy, or aching muscles. Most twenty year olds would likely lose sleep and complain and whine about how stressed they were, how much they needed a vacation from the madness, but Aizawa was not like most twenty year olds. Though, he wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not.

It didn't matter. He sat at a table in the headquarters' archives, papers of all sorts strewn before him. The untidiness would have been concerning, but Aizawa didn't care. He couldn't. Not when he had to divert all of his attention to trying to connect the dots. The papers were files on villains, police reports of recent crimes related to the kidnappings, transcripts of descriptions of the children when they were found. One hand was buried in his hair, fingernails embedded in his scalp, while the other tightly clutched a file on some low life criminal who supposedly had connections to others like him.

Aizawa cast the paper to the side and picked up another.

"Er, Eraserhead-san?"

"Mm?"

The hero shifted his eyes, staring at an awkward man who carried a pile of folders in his flimsy arms. His smile was lopsided and his teeth were crooked, but he aided Aizawa in fetching any files he needed. He was useful, at least.

"_I-I wanna be a detective when I graduate college!"_ he had cried. Aizawa regarded him with a half lid gaze.

"Um, I searched the database for you," he started, pushing up his glasses. "I looked through missing persons networks, fingerprints, birth certificates, things of that sort, but no one with the name Kizuna was found matching your descriptions. The lack of a surname made it troubling…"

"I wouldn't be searching if I knew her surname," Aizawa hissed. The boy gulped and nodded skittishly.

"R-Right! I totally understand, um, sir!"

"Sorry." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Been a long day. I'm tired."

"You should get some rest!"

Rest?

Aizawa almost laughed at the notion. Rest was a luxury, a _privilege,_ one he couldn't afford with something like Kizuna's missing identity looming over his head. Tsukauchi and Sekijiro were working just as tirelessly, but without any memories for them to go off of, no ideas, no leads, they were left just as clueless as they started. Defeated, frustrated, and beginning to feel more and more demoralized, Aizawa sighed deeply and pushed his chair away from the table. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing a small _pop_ somewhere in his back before returning to his slumped position.

"I'll keep looking tomorrow," he said. Standing up, Aizawa began to gather the papers. "Thanks for your help, kid."

"N-No problem, Eraserhead-san! If there's anything I can do, just let me know!"

He entertained the thought of responding with a sardonic _Help me solve this case,_ but he ultimately remained silent.

"_If there's no information about her, not even a birth certificate, that can only mean one of two things: either her real name isn't Kizuna, or she was born to people who didn't want anyone to know she even existed."_

Aizawa closed his eyes.

Villains.

It was just a theory at this point, if even that, but the mere idea made his stomach turn inside out. He sometimes forgot how terrible humans could be, especially since he was surrounded by people he could trust and rely on, but it was things like this that made him remember why the world needed those who did they kind of stuff he did.

After clearing the table and gathering his things, he bid his goodbye to the young intern and shuffled out of the room. By the time he reached outside, the sun was beginning its final descent below the horizon. The sky was becoming darker and darker, a few flecks of purple and orange dancing amongst the navy blue backdrop. He immediately wondered if Kizuna was watching the same sunset; if she was questioning where he was and when he was going to come home. He promised her miso soup when he'd return.

Hands in his pockets, Aizawa made a beeline for the supermarket.

* * *

The last thing Aizawa expected when he stepped foot into his apartment was to see Nemuri and Kizuna sitting at the dinner table, eating a plate of fried chicken and rice, giggling and talking. And yet, here they were, doing just that.

"Oh, Shōta! You're back!" Nemuri greeted, waving her arm in the air. "Come join us!"

Kizuna turned around in her chair and smiled brightly, the widest he's ever seen. A piece of rice was stuck between her teeth.

"Aizawa!" she squeaked. "Welcome back!"

Hiding the bag of ingredients behind his back, he slipped off his shoes and stepped towards the two, eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Kizuna-chan wanted me to cook for her, so I did~" Nemuri stated proudly, flicking a piece of black hair over her shoulder. Aizawa immediately faced the young girl.

"You only ever eat soup," he said.

"Nemuri-tan said her fried chicken is the best." Kizuna took a moment to stuff a piece in her mouth. "She was right!"

_Nemuri-tan?_

_That's…_

"I can't believe you've been feeding her such an awful diet!" Nemuri huffed. Aizawa rolled his eyes and dropped the bag on the kitchen counter.

"She only ever asks for miso," he argued.

"You _do_ know you can tell her no, right?"

Aizawa grunted. He returned to the table and took Kizuna's fork, poking it through a piece of chicken and popping it into his mouth. He tried not to let his expression change to indicate that he was the slightest hint of impressed with the taste. A myriad of flavors exploded against his tongue. Whatever seasoning Nemuri used, it was good enough to make him go for a second piece.

"Does he like it?" Kizuna asked.

"Ohhhh, yeah." Nemuri smirked. "He likes it."

"Shut up," Aizawa grouched. He felt a tug on his shirt and looked down, Kizuna eyeing him innocently.

"Nemuri-tan said she can put people to sleep with her Quirk," she said. "You think it can work on me?"

"What? You didn't tell me you couldn't sleep."

"I'm telling you now."

He pursed his lips. The dark circles under her eyes should have easily given it away, and Aizawa inwardly berating himself for not noticing earlier. It was otherwise proof that he needed some rest, too.

"Are you still hearing voices?" he asked, a sigh tagging along. Kizuna shook her head. He glanced over at Nemuri, clicked his tongue, and jerked his head in the direction of her room.

"Good night, Aizawa," Kizuna said as she slipped off her chair.

"Yeah," he replied. "Night."

* * *

Nemuri returned a few minutes later. She exhaled deeply and rolled her shoulders, getting rid of any stiffness. Aizawa stood by his stove, a flame alive underneath a kettle. Tea. He didn't care for it as much as he did for coffee, but tonight called for it.

"She's adorable," Nemuri said, sitting back down at the dining table. Aizawa didn't respond. "She's very sweet. I didn't expect her to be so open so soon after you found her."

"She has no memory. She doesn't have much to be afraid of."

"Maybe. But it seems like you're warming up to her," Nemuri giggled. "And here I was under the assumption you didn't like kids."

"I don't."

"Except for her?"

Aizawa remained quiet. Grinning widely, the older woman turned in the chair, crossing one leg over the other.

"You can admit you care about her, you know," Nemuri continued. "It isn't illegal."

"I shouldn't."

The kettle began to whistle, a cloud of steam shooting out of the spout. Turning off the flame, Aizawa took out a box of tea bags and a second mug— one for Nemuri. He poured the hot water in them both, and added a dash of sugar to hers before picking up the mugs and walking back toward her.

"Why not?" Nemuri asked. As he took his seat at the table, he handed her the mug. "You're both helping each other. You're giving her a new life, and she's helping you see that not everything has to end in tragedy."

Aizawa shook his head. "I'm not giving her anything," he grumbled. "I tried searching for her identity. She doesn't even have a birth certificate. I'm not doing anything for—"

"Shōta."

Nemuri placed her hand over his.

"Do you think she cares about any of that stuff? Do you see the way she looked at you? You're something to her."

"I'm not her father."

"I never said you were."

Aizawa sighed and sipped his tea. It burned his tongue and stung his lips, but he thought that little bit of pain would help him to think clearly again. Somehow.

"She's leaving next week," he murmured. "We'll have to say goodbye regardless."

"You don't have to," Nemuri said. Aizawa's brow twitched at the fact she didn't include herself in that. "Take her in as your ward. She doesn't have to adopt your surname or anything, but she can still be under your care." Nemuri smiled. "You should be around people, you know, who aren't Hizashi or Sekijiro or myself. You could use the company."

Aizawa frowned. Nemuri was never one to lecture him— Sekijiro was usually the one in charge of that— but hearing something like this from someone like her made him want to reevaluate his life choices.

Even so, despite that, it pained Aizawa to admit that she wasn't _wrong_. He didn't consider himself to be lonely, because he enjoyed his solitude whenever he could, but when he made comparisons between himself and Hizashi or Nemuri— or his coworkers, or even a group of people his age on the street, hanging out and having fun— he couldn't help but feel a bit of yearning. Aizawa had experienced loss before, and thinking of that girl, he couldn't imagine what it would be like for her— someone who started off with nothing, gaining _something,_ only for it to be ripped away from her again. And for what? Because he couldn't bring it upon himself to acknowledge he had a heart?

No. Aizawa was many things, he knew this, but he wasn't _unfeeling_. Heartless. Cruel. He thought back to how brightly she smiled at him, how excited his mere presence made her that not even Nemuri came close to. Aizawa inhaled a deep, sharp breath. He _could_ use the company.

"I'll think about it," he huffed.

Nemuri smiled.

"I know you will."

* * *

"Nemuri-tan taught me how to write some more."

Aizawa looked at Kizuna, her small hands tapping a nonsensical, random tune against the table. A plate with an omelette sat in front of her, along with a cup of tea. Aizawa had the same, albeit with coffee. He needed the energy.

"She did?" he asked.

"Yeah." Kizuna sat up. "But not much. She taught me how to write your name, and hers. And your Quirks."

"Show me."

He fetched her a pen and paper. Kizuna's handwriting was, to his great surprise, clear and coherent. Had he not been watching the four year old write down everything in front of him, he would have thought an adult was the one who scrawled these characters, though he's met people older than him with worse handwriting.

"You learn fast," Aizawa remarked. Kizuna nodded.

"Nemuri-tan said the same thing." She showed off the paper, smiling proudly. "See?"

"Then I guess that means you can learn this stuff yourself," Aizawa said, lifting the paper.

"I like it when you teach me. You're a good teacher."

The hero snorted. "You're just saying that."

"No! I mean it. But it's because I like being around you, Aizawa."

_Oh._

He was never the type of person people willingly spent time around. _He's too depressing, too sad_, he'd hear. His friend group— if it could even be called that— was incredibly small, reduced to a few select individuals who didn't mind him as much as he didn't mind them. And even then, the fact that he rarely left his home other than for work or groceries, let alone spend time with them, was enough for most people to label him as a loner.

But Kizuna was here, eating an omelette and drinking tea and kicking her legs underneath the table, otherwise unaware of the way Aizawa was looking at her. Nemuri had called him out on it, on the fact that he was beginning to care for this girl— not because he saw himself as a paternal figure, but because he saw himself in _her_.

"Oi, Kizuna," he started. She looked up at him. "Be honest."

"'Kay."

"Do you like it here?"

Her eyes lit up like fireworks. "Yeah!" she exclaimed. "I like your home, and I like Nemuri-tan. I don't… wanna lose that." Her expression fell slightly. "Not yet."

Aizawa knew what that was like, wanting something but not knowing how to ask for it. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing his strands back.

"Look, kid—" _I can't believe I'm doing this._ "If you wanna stay, then… you can. I can take you in as my ward. You can live with me and I'll take full responsibility for you."

"Really…?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to the Commissioner General and we'll go from there."

It was obvious the girl was trying to contain her excitement. She beamed, brighter than the sun, and nodded quickly. Without a second thought, or even a first one, she hopped off her chair and scrambled to Aizawa, and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

"Thank you," she whispered. Stiffening at the contact, Aizawa blinked a few times, unsure of how to react. Brows furrowed, he sighed and patted her head. Was this a bad idea? Maybe. Aizawa knew raising a child wasn't easy, and he didn't envy parents, but he respected the hard work they put into raising another human. Ready wasn't the word— he wasn't even sure if he could have even prepared for this— but could anyone?

But there was no way he could go on without at least giving her a chance. He knew this. And if he wasn't going to put in his one hundred and ten percent into raising her, then he wasn't worth Kizuna's trust. And that's what this was all about— trust.

_Time to be less tedious._

One step at a time.

* * *

That night, after putting Kizuna to bed, and getting ready to turn in himself, Aizawa sighed as he flicked off the lights and walked down the hallway. Passing by the girl's room, he stopped and moved backwards when he noticed something abnormal through the crack of her door. Slowly pushing it open, his eyes widened in alarm when he saw that her bed was hovering a few inches off the ground, though she was sleeping peacefully.

"Kizuna!" he barked. She awoke with a jolt. The bed dropped with an incredibly loud _thud_ that made Aizawa flinch.

"Wh— huh?" Kizuna whimpered. She rubbed her head, fingers brushing over the marking on her forehead. Eyes narrowed, he stepped toward her and crouched by her bed, removing her hand to get a better look at the rhombus.

"What's wrong?" Kizuna asked.

"Your Quirk—" Aizawa paused. "It's more than telepathy."

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for your support and kind reviews. The "Introduction Arc" will be over soon, as will the changing POV's. Chapters will also begin to get longer. Please bear with me.


	6. Shorelines

_"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself."_

* * *

**vi. shorelines**

* * *

"Here."

I glanced upwards at Aizawa as he handed a yakitori stick toward me. I stared at it for a moment, debating whether or not I should take it, but Aizawa never did things just because. I acknowledged it as a part of his plan to get me to eat more than just miso soup and fried chicken. Introducing me to new foods was an understandably large part of that plan.

Nodding at him as a thanks, I took the stick and bit into the first piece of chicken. The slightly charred meat immediately opened the doors to a wave of flavors that left me craving more. I finished the yakitori stick before most of it could even reach my stomach.

"Mm!" I sounded as I chucked the bare stick in a trash can we passed by. "That was good!"

Aizawa snorted. "Do you ever stop eating?"

"No," I answered bluntly. "I like food too much."

"Uh-huh."

It has been about a month since Aizawa told me he would let me stay with him. There was still a bit of childlike excitement that lingered since I received the news. I was relieved that I wouldn't be going to an orphanage, but I was even happier to know that I would be spending most of my time with him.

In that month, through a mixture of Nemuri and Aizawa's own diligence, literacy became second nature to me. I could read and write in hiragana, katakana, and kanji, spell out names and count numbers. Nemuri, as well as Aizawa's other friends— though he never called them that— Sekijiro and Hizashi, ended up becoming people I valued as much as Aizawa himself. I consider myself blessed to be surrounded by people who I wasn't afraid to be around, because if there was one thing I no longer wanted to have, it was fear.

No new memories came. My name still remained the only part of my life, or maybe my past one, that I could recall. I _did_, however, remember the way to write it. The kanji consisted of the characters for 'life', 'red', and 'love'. I found it ironic, all things considered, but I was more occupied with the fact it was something I could call mine.

Not only that, but a secondary part of my Quirk had manifested. Though it was initially thought I could only read minds, as it turns out, there's _more_ I can do. The night after I supposedly floated my bed into the air, Aizawa took me back to the hospital to get another evaluation.

The doctors had discovered that the energy my frontal lobe emitted could be manipulated to interact with the world around me without having to move a single muscle. My telepathy happened to be a sub-effect of this ability. They dubbed it Telekinesis.

I decided to take it upon myself to train this power of mine. I could only assume what my capabilities were, the upper ends of my limit, which meant I had to treat my Quirk as a muscle and strengthen it if I wished to put it to any use. I started to spend my sleepless nights on trying to eliminate the one thing that prevented me from sleeping in the first place.

The noise.

By sitting completely still and closing my eyes, I would try to clear my mind. Empty my head. I'd focus on each individual voice, zoom in on them, and then imagine they faded from my inner head space. It worked for the most part, though I had discovered that there would always be a bit of noise bumbling around somewhere. It was muffled and diluted for the most part— as if I had placed a thin wall between my mind and the world around me. It was all I could manage for now.

"Ever seen snow?"

Aizawa once again grabbed my attention with the question. I blinked curiously at him before shaking my head as a negative answer. Maybe I have. But with my amnesia, I couldn't remember what it looked like.

"Mm. It doesn't usually snow around this time, but Musutafu is a little colder than usual. Maybe you'll see some."

I smiled. "I'd like that."

The new year would be arriving in a couple of weeks. I knew it was a time of renewal and rebirth; to reflect on the past and use it to push toward a better future. I didn't have any particular new year's resolutions. I just wanted to keep heading down the path I was currently on.

We made our way down the mostly quiet streets of our neighborhood. It was one of the walks we took every once in a while for no particular reason other than to just enjoy being outside and near each other. I found that these walks, as mundane as they were, happened to be my favorites. They were often filled with new sights and experiences and, most precious of all, memories.

"Do _you_ like snow?" I asked Aizawa, mostly out of nagging curiosity. He responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I don't really care for it."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Are you excited?"

Another wordless reply, this time in the form of a grunt. Though most children likely would have thrown a tantrum or continue to hound him with a flurry of questions to get more than just a blank stare, I chuckled and shook my head.

"Can we get yakitori again soon?"

Sparing me a short glance, his shoulders slumped. The corners of my lips curled upwards.

"Sure."

* * *

On New Years' Eve, Aizawa's apartment became filled with an unfamiliar buzz of life and activity when Nemuri, Hizashi, and Sekijiro invited themselves over for all of us to celebrate. I didn't mind their company as much as Aizawa did, but he quickly realized that asking them to leave would be useless. He let them stay, against his wishes, and before long the sound of music and smell of buckwheat noodles permeated into the thin walls of the home. We sat together and ate, with the adult sharing stories of their high school days and current hero careers. Aizawa didn't laugh and he hardly participated, but there were several times I could see a lift in his lips.

Afterwards, we all bundled up and headed outside. A trip to the shrines, Hizashi told me, to bring good luck into the new year. Like Aizawa told me before, Musutafu was a bit colder than usual this time of year. A chilly breeze blew and nipped at my nose and ears. It seeped through the fabric of my mittens, wholly disregarding the cotton that was supposed to keep my fingers warm, and danced along my neck despite being protected by a scarf. When I shuddered, Nemuri grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Nighttime had fully settled in and so had the festival. It was my first time seeing so many people in one area. People of all shapes, sizes, and colors walked up and down the street, occupying the air with chatter and laughter. Hopes of the new year and recollections of the last. Lanterns swung with the breeze, coloring the roads and foreign faces with a soft yellow glow. With dark clouds shielding the moon, the only light came from what was directly around us, while lazy flickers of the cityscape could be viewed in the distance.

"It's beautiful," I gasped in awe, a cloud escaping my lips. I looked back and forth between the stands, all offering food or games or souvenirs to invest in. With my eyes wide, I was worried that blinking once would make me miss the entire night.

Nemuri led us the festival's main square where a good amount of people had already gathered having finished eating their food and praying at the shrines. It didn't take me very long to notice everyone's eyes and breaths were drawn in a certain direction. Following them, I turned my head and noticed, at the top of a tower-like structure, an incredibly muscular man who had his hips planted firmly on his hips. With a booming, hearty laugh, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, everyone shouting one name: All Might.

"Who's All Might?" I asked Aizawa, having to shout above the noise.

"Mm? I'm surprised you haven't heard of him," he responded. "He's the number one hero in Japan. Has been for a while."

"Hero?"

I turned back to All Might, his face mostly obscured by shadows, and yet his bright smile could easily be seen. He pumped an enthusiastic fist into the air and the crowd followed.

"Are you all ready for another amazing new year?!" he asked. The screaming made my ears sting, yet I was able to ignore that with the wave of emotions that suddenly crashed into me, quickly overpowering any physical discomfort I felt. It was a passive ability of my Quirk, reading and feeling other people's emotions— with thoughts came feelings. Their voices could be turned off, sure, but their emotions couldn't.

Closest to me, I felt Hizashi's excitement as he yelled along with the crowd, like a fire in my chest that warmed me up. I could feel Nemuri's longing, laced with a sliver of sadness. I could feel Sekijiro's determination, fiery and fierce, while Aizawa was surprisingly calm. Tranquil.

I felt happiness, relief, gratitude, inspiration, love. The new year brought about these sentiments, but All Might's mere presence amplified each and every feeling. He was a hero— people who protected those who couldn't protect themselves, risking their own lives for the betterment of others. And the people around me— Aizawa, Nemuri, Hizashi, Sekijiro, perhaps even the girl clapping to my side or the man nodding fervently— they were all heroes too, whether because they were paid to be called one, or because someone else deemed them as such.

When the fireworks started whistling across the sky, I couldn't take my eyes away. I stared at the scores of multicolored lights that exploded against a sable backdrop, lighting up the world beneath it. I didn't realize I was crying, not until Sekijiro lifted me into his arms and asked what was wrong. I gave him the widest grin I could muster and turned to Aizawa.

I had things I cherished.

I had people I wanted to protect.

Tugging at his shirt, he looked at me with eyes illuminated by the fireworks popping above us. A few white flakes fell from the sky, and as All Might's cries echoed in the night, I smiled.

"I wanna be a hero, too."

* * *

**A/N: **This will be the end of the Introduction Arc. There will be a couple of chapters before we catch up to the events of the first episode of the series. Hopefully you all don't get too bored before then. Thank you again for your support and reviews. I'll try to update this story on a weekly or biweekly basis; if I don't update one week, assume I will the next, though school is more than likely to get in the way. I'll try my best regardless.


	7. On Horizons

_"Because I was conceived and born and I grew up. I'm breathing and my heart is beating and as much as it hurts ― as much searing, monumental pain it causes me ― I have to exist."_

* * *

**vii. on horizons**

* * *

"Begin."

It was an instantaneous reaction. My body moved as soon as the word left his lips, but as I was quick to find out, my opponent was faster. Reaction time meant nothing if I didn't have the speed to follow up, and even though I managed to dodge a fist coated with hardened blood, I wasn't able to do the same when a knee was aimed for my gut.

I was suddenly on the ground a few feet away, body sore and chest heaving painfully. Despite this I jumped to my feet, wiped the sweat away from my brows, and got ready to attack.

"Don't be afraid to dodge if you need to," Aizawa barked from a ways off. "If it means giving you that split second you need to determine your next course of action, then do it."

I nodded in understanding. Sekijiro flicked his wrist and a bullet of blood was sent racing toward me. I somersaulted to the side and, immediately getting to my knees, I threw my arm up. The ground right before me cracked and up-heaved, but just as a boulder lifted into the air, it fell back down and I was at a loss for words.

Looking past Sekijiro, I could see Aizawa standing with his arms crossed, eyes glowing red, and hair rising high into the air, defying gravity itself.

"No telepathy, no telekinesis," he said. "You have to make up for your weak points. Your Quirk is powerful, but you can't cross your fingers and hope it'll get you out of every pinch." He closed his eyes and his hair fell back around his shoulders. "Especially when you reach your limit."

Despite having lived with him for four years now, I was still astonished at how the crimson that encircled his irises gave him a sense of authority that traversed our relationship.

"He's right, Kizuna," Sekijiro agreed. "Try a few more times to land a hit on me. Then we can break for lunch."

I groaned loudly, tilting my head upwards to the sky and letting my shoulders slump.

"You're too _fast!_" I huffed. "I probably couldn't hit you even _with_ my Telekinesis."

"Not true."

"Totally true."

"Oi, Kizuna!" Aizawa shouted. "Quit being lazy! If you want to be a hero, stop trying to slack off!"

I sighed and got into a defensive position. I hated when he was right. I had told him all those years ago I wanted to be a hero, and it was a dream I still held onto, becoming stronger with the passing days. I had become more and more aware of the type of sacrifices Aizawa and the others made, the lengths they had to go to in order to make sure others were safe.

Though the statement would have come off as a whimsical one at the time, the reasons I had for my ultimate decision were still absolute. I wanted to protect my friends and my family. My own self hadn't come into the picture until after I took a good look at my neck and saw the scar— a permanent and grotesque reminder of what I had gone through— but wanting to protect myself was just as valid of a motive.

The word 'hero' has become muddled and romanticized over the years, especially as more and more come into the limelight, showing off the glamorous side of the lifestyle. But if living with Aizawa has taught me one thing, it was that heroism was anything but. Heroes had to make sacrifices all the time, sometimes greater than what they could afford. Choices had to be made, and sometimes people would get hurt in the end. It was all part of the job description, and it wasn't something a majority of the population were ready for. The willingness heroes had to step forward and take on the burdens of society was another reason why I admired them.

Sekijiro launched himself toward me, gathering a bit of blood in his palm and chucking it at me. I dodged it with a hand flip and moved to the side as his fist made contact with where I previously was. Pivoting around on my heel, my foot made contact with the back of his knees, and as he tumbled to the ground, I swatted his shoulder.

"Gotcha," I said. I didn't need to turn around to know that Aizawa was approaching me. It wasn't pride or fulfillment that emanated from him, but more so a subtle sense of contentment that danced somewhere near satisfaction.

"Good job," he said, a hand placed on my head. With a chuckle, Sekijiro got to his feet and dusted himself off, rolled his shoulders a few times, and offered me a grin.

"I saw that passion in your eyes," he commented. "Now why can't you have that same energy toward everything else in your life?"

I shrugged my shoulders and tugged at my hair, pulling it out of the ponytail it had been tied into before this training session.

"Can't be bothered," I answered plainly before turning to Aizawa. "Can we get coffee?"

"Mm," he grunted. Sekijiro scrunched up his nose, an expression that read '_Really?'_

"She really is like you," he muttered. Aizawa waved his hand dismissively.

"Too late to snap her out of it now."

The sentiment was one Sekijiro shared with many. Living with Aizawa for all these years meant naturally, I began to adopt his mannerisms. Grunting and grumbling and complaining about the prospects of anything relating to work, but pushing through it anyway. We both took our coffee black and turned away from people when we weren't interested in what they had to say. We were blunt and valued honesty as much as we did sleep, and to Nemuri's great chagrin, we both slouched. We were more or less the same person at this point.

"I'm fuckin' exhausted."

We also happened to have a potty mouth.

A glare from Sekijiro's direction burned into me while Aizawa's lips lifted slightly.

"Language," they said in unison, though one voice was far less stern than the other.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"She gets it from you," Sekijiro said, his tone far more accusatory than it should have been. Aizawa shrugged his shoulders.

"Mhmm," was how we responded. We took our time leaving the training grounds— a secluded area near the campus of Yūei High School, where Sekijiro was a teacher. Because he was a staff member there, he was essentially given free rein to most of what it offered, making it more than ideal to host these sessions.

My gaze eventually landed on Yūei's massive building. It was made of all glass, reflecting the early afternoon sun with a shine that made it seem more imposing simply because of Yūei's prestige. It was a hero school for all upcoming hopefuls. A measly two percent acceptance rate guaranteed that those admitted were truly the best of the best, ready in mind and body to carry on the legacy every hero has left. Some of the greatest heroes graduated from Yūei. All Might, for example— Endeavor as well. And, of course, Aizawa, Sekijiro, and everyone else.

I would be lying if I said I haven't dreamt of going there. Truthfully, if I looked at things from a broader perspective, Yūei was not unlike any other high school— it simply had the title of top hero school in Japan attached to its name— but that's precisely why I was itching to grow up, so I could explore its halls and be called one of its students. It wasn't the pride I cared about, the school spirit or whatever perks came with attending it. I wanted to be a hero, a good one at that, and there was no better place to start than at Yūei.

_Six more years,_ I kept telling myself. I think I could wait a little longer.

* * *

"Going somewhere?"

I lifted my head up from the book that remained propped in my lap and look at Aizawa. He lumbered past me with a less than enthusiastic look on his face. I didn't need my sense to know that he was irritated, cranky, and likely in need of a few cups of coffee.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Was called in for this report of these thugs terrorizing the streets."

Setting my book down, I straightened myself up on the couch and brought my knees to my chest.

"I wanna go with you one day," I brought up. "You said this stuff usually isn't dangerous, anyway, and I've been training hard with my Quirk."

"Not a chance," Aizawa shot down as he tugged on his boots. "Keep in mind that you don't have a hero license, no way to defend yourself if something happened, and most importantly—" He frowned. "You're only _nine_."

_Only in body,_ I wanted to retort, but my shoulders dropped when I realized he was completely right. Not only was he unaware of the fact that I was a reincarnation, but I had several things stacked against me in terms of witnessing his hero work first hand.

"Fine," I huffed. "Come back soon, though? It's boring all day without you."

"Go work at a soup kitchen."

I stuck out my bottom lip, watching as he opened the front door.

"Why would I do that?" I asked. Aizawa simply smirked.

"You wanna be a hero, don't you?"

I paused.

Eraserhead had won yet again.

* * *

Though the idea of working at a soup kitchen was far from a bad one— I had, in fact, spent some time entertaining the idea— it was once again due to forces out of my control that I was unable to do that. Staying home was becoming less of something I wanted to do and more of something I _had_ to do. One thing I learned as I grew older was that desires that came with being a certain age never left just because my mind was a few years ahead. I was antsy and curious. I wanted to explore.

If Aizawa was here, he would have been able to take me to Sekijiro, or even Nemuri or Hizashi, as I wasn't sure if they were available now or if they would be in the future. I could've searched for their thoughts using my telepathy— walk around for a bit and wait for their presence to appear on my mental radar— but that would have taken way too much energy and effort for what it was worth.

Luckily, I had a firm sense of independence and a lack of fear when it came to exploring. I was always willing to discover what Musutafu had to offer. Even though I've lived here for four years, there were still parts of it I had yet to check out, and times like these proved to be the best opportunity to do just that.

Slipping on a jacket, I zipped up the collar to hide my scar. I put on a pair of sandals, and I ventured out.

* * *

I loved winter.

Through years of observation and analysis, I found that those born during winter were serious and gloomy, moody and contemplative. They formed walls around themselves to keep their emotions under lock and key; much like how one would bundle up to protect from being frozen by frigid winds. Winter babies tended to be harsh and intense like the blizzards that battered down every January. Conversely, getting underneath those walls would reveal the warmth they hid so fiercely that, upon feeling it, was like the first cup of coffee on a bitter December morning.

Because I had no idea of my true birthday, it was decided that my unofficial one would be the day Aizawa found me. October twenty third. This, supposedly, made me a Scorpio. It's said that those born under the sign of the scorpion are passionate, stubborn, brutally honest individuals. Aizawa and Sekijiro are also Scorpios, and when I read about the zodiacs for the first time, I was alarmed to see how accurate the description was to their personalities. Intuitive. Intelligent. Determined and almost infuriatingly tenacious. I was amused at how fervently Aizawa rejected the idea of zodiacs being real, which all but confirmed a Scorpio's defining characteristic.

Regardless, this was an effort I made in order to try to understand myself better. I was essentially a blank slate; I had nothing to build off of, no understanding of who I was. I had no personality and even now I fretted if I was just a carbon copy of Aizawa. Who was I beyond his ward? Or, more accurately—

_Who was Kizuna?_

It was a question I still didn't have the answers to.

As I walked past the school I was enrolled in, I thought about how my teachers would describe me. _Troublesome,_ one said while speaking to Aizawa— called up due to what she considered 'misbehavior'. _Clever_, another huffed, though by reading his mind I knew he used that word as a veil for what he really meant— cunning. _Sassy_, a third brought up in passing.

Truthfully, I wasn't the best with authority figures. The irony within that was almost too much to handle, but it was something even I couldn't figure out. If I wanted to delve deep into the psychology, I could say it's a result of buried trauma. Something to do with my past and being told how to live just didn't sit well with me, but it just as easily could have been written off as the phase of defiance that plagued every nine year old. I guess, in the end, it didn't matter as much as I wanted it to.

I walked past the playground I used to spend the entire day at, sometimes with Aizawa if I begged him enough. Though usually empty, with the sole occupant being a bird or two looking for food, it was to my surprise that a group of boys stood in a half circle near the swings, surrounding one who was one the ground, curled into a ball.

"Get up, Deku! If you wanna be a hero so bad, then fight back!" one howled, ruby eyes seething at the boy below him. One of his goonies cackled and nodded.

"Yeah, c'mon, weakling!"

"It's not like you could ever do anything, though," a third scoffed. "You're _Quirkless_, after all!"

_Quirkless?_

The anomalous emergence of Quirks, beginning with a glowing baby somewhere in China, evolved at an accelerated rate— the next step in human evolution, some experts called it. The origins of Quirks were sketchy at best, but the end product created a society where eighty percent of people on earth had these unique powers. The rest, well, they were average— which, in today's day and age, was synonymous with normal. And that word, somehow, has been altered to mean something negative. An excuse people used to treat others like they were inferior simply because they were a little less extraordinary than the rest.

I never understood why society felt obligated to isolate Quirkless people for being just that. At their core they were human— the fact I could feel this boy's fear and confusion reinforced that point— and just because they didn't have anything to prove they were different didn't mean people had to treat them like they were.

I didn't have any intention of standing here and letting this boy get bullied for something that was out of his control. Readjusting my jacket, I walked up to the group and planted my hands firmly on my hips. My presence didn't go unnoticed; four pairs of eyes were suddenly on me, but that didn't deter me.

"Hey!" I called. "What're you doing to him?"

I pointed at the boy, his emerald eyes widening.

"Whaddya mean?" the blond asked. There was a stick in his hand and he used it to poke the fallen boy's cheek. "This guy's Quirkless."

"And?"

The second boy frowned. "He's lame as all hell."

"Don't group him up with you guys," I said, kneeling beside him. I offered a smile and held out my hand. There was an immediate spike in rage and fury, but that was quickly overshadowed by the ocean of gratitude that emanated from this one boy.

Every emotion had their own feeling. Anger, wrath, spite and hatred— those felt like fire, burning my very soul with smoke choking my lungs. Sadness, distress, loss, and grief were heavy weights on my body, dragging me down in an ocean of despondency.

But those positive emotions— happiness, joy, hope, and love— they were like the sun coming out after a rainy day. Warm, but not intense. Light and gentle. That's why, when the boy took my hand and we both stood up, I saw a galaxy in his eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" the blond growled. He held out his palm and released a series of firecrackers. "I'll beat the shit out of you!"

"K-Kacchan, don't! S-She's just helping me out!" the green eyed boy— he was apparently called Deku, though I highly doubted that was his real name— whined, stepping forward. I extended my arm out in front of him. The other two boys got into a defensive position.

"I don't wanna fight, but it's not fair for you to be beating up on someone just 'cause he's Quirkless," I said. "Especially since he can't defend himself."

"So what?" one of the boys snorted. "He wants to be a hero, anyway. We're just teaching him that being a crybaby isn't how ya do it!"

And there it was.

It was a split second reaction, and instant if we were cutting things short, but that's all what was needed. It was as if all the wrath and ire I was feeling was absorbed into me and then released all at once. I was a bit of a paradox. I was rational, yes, but I was also impulsive— more so the latter than the former— and because paradoxes are what they are, and shouldn't exist in the first place, the universe had to decide to settle on one or the other. It chose impulsivity.

But, because I am not a memoir writer, a poet, or a bard, nor was I trying to pretty up what was, quite frankly, a messy situation, in the most simplest of terms—

I snapped.

It exploded as a burst of energy. Suddenly, the three boys were ten feet away and on the ground, covered in dust and scrapes and cuts. Deku gaped at me, and as the trio slowly lifted themselves into a sitting position, it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that they were _livid._

"H-How'd you do that?" Deku squeaked, still trembling. I looked over my shoulder to face him.

"My Quirk," I said, pointing to the marking on my forehead. "I can do stuff like that."

"Still—" He scrambled toward me. "W-We should run!" Deku gasped, tugging at my jacket. I smirked.

"No way. Heroes don't run away!"

As the boys rushed toward me, I lowered myself and got ready to fight for my ideals.

* * *

"They fuckin' kicked our asses."

In most stories, I would have met expectations by seamlessly beating up the bullies with my— supposedly— powerful Quirk, save the day, and be hailed as a hero, something that I would carry with me and use as motivation for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, this was not most stories.

I laid on the ground, facing the sky. My body was sore and on fire. I felt like there was cement flowing through my veins, and each nerve was pulled out and stepped on. Basically, I was in a lot of pain. Covered in bruises and cuts— some probably deep enough to heal as a scar.

Deku laid beside me, hurt, a little bit more banged up than I was. I couldn't blame him. He was defenseless and way too timid to retaliate against people like those boys.

But I was not.

It was an admittedly large blow to my self esteem knowing that I had lost. I've been training with Aizawa and Sekijiro for little over half a year now— they were too worried about me not being old enough to start earlier— but I liked to think I had a good grasp on my Quirk. Hand to hand combat, though still my weak point, was something I was steadily gaining more and more confidence in. Aizawa had told Sekijiro not to hold back when it came to our training, so I _knew_ it was something I was genuinely improving at, rather than it being some placebo effect as a result of Sekijiro half assing his attacks.

I could have come up with any number of excuses; _three against one isn't fair, they had the upper hand, their Quirks were superior_— but the fact of the matter was, I had lost miserably. It was nothing more than a result of my silly hubris; my belief that my Telekinesis somehow made me untouchable because I didn't need to touch anything at all.

On the bright side, this was something of a wake up call. There were people out there far better than I was and I had to get myself together if I truly wanted to be as great as I previously thought I was. I was no prodigy, and I wasn't some sort of genius, either. I suppose it was better that I learned this now than further down the line, when fights had actual consequences, and fighting for what you thought was right could lead to severe injury or worse. The worst I'd be was sore for a few days; considering I had survived having my throat slit, I figured this wasn't the most terrible thing to happen to me. I could handle a bit of discomfort.

I finally gathered the energy to pull myself into an upright position, hissing at the stinging sensation of dirt getting into my open wounds. I'd have to ask Aizawa to clean them later on. I looked over at Deku, still on his back, eyes glossy and threatening to spill a wave of tears. I couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

"Hey," I said. "You okay? Don't cry."

He did, regardless. I frowned as he hiccuped and sniffled, nose runny and cheeks flushed. I always felt awkward when other people cried because I never knew how to handle it. Should I hug them? Place a hand on their shoulder? Say anything at all, or just sit there quietly and let them sift through their emotions? It was uncomfortable no matter what. I wasn't a very touchy person.

So we sat there for a few minutes, maybe longer. Deku cried and I listened to him. As much as I wanted to leave, doing so now would be like pouring salt in his wounds. I couldn't abandon him when no one else was there for him.

"S-Sorry," he finally choked out. "I'm s-sorry."

I raised a brow. "What for?"

"I was just d-dragging you down!" he whined. "I was a b-burden to y-you!"

"No, no, that isn't true at all! I lost 'cause I suck. That's it. If anything, I was a burden to _you._" My shoulders fell. "I was acting all big and tough and I got my ass handed to me."

He finally looked at me. Eyes red and puffy, tears still fresh, and his sadness overwhelming me. I was beginning to feel a little down myself. He slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to calm his breathing.

"You're hurt because of me…"

I shook my head.

"_We're_ hurt because of _me_." I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is my fault—" I paused. "Well, technically, it's that other guy's fault. He's an asshole."

"K-Kacchan is my friend!" Deku retorted. I physically recoiled at how quick he was to defend that kid. "He's just a little…"

"Mean?" I snorted. "He beat you up and made fun of you. What kind of friend is that?"

Mimicking my earlier actions, Deku slumped his shoulders. I could have easily read his mind, figure out what was going through his head, but to do that, especially to a stranger, was a deep invasion of privacy. Doing that to him was probably the worst thing I could do right now. So instead, I showed him a smile.

"Let's go home," I said, getting to my feet. I hurt, but I still kept that smile. I offered my hand toward him. "I bet there's someone who's worried sick about you right now."

It was as if he was debating the prospects of taking my hand, what would happen afterwards, and though my confidence had waned a bit, I knew for sure we would be okay now. He must've known it, too.

He took my hand and stood.

* * *

"Izuku!"

I didn't even try to hold back my smile as a pair of arms flew around him, a woman whimpering as she tightly hugged her son like the world depended on it. Tears in her eyes, it was easy to tell their resemblances went beyond physical. She grabbed his cheeks and kissed his face all over, whining and whimpering and worrying.

"You're injured! Come in— both of you!" she said, gesturing for us. I felt awkward, my hands held behind my back, but I obliged regardless and slipped off my shoes, stepping further into the apartment. It was a nice, cozy little place, far more inviting than Aizawa's, which only consisted of the absolute necessities. Izuku's mother scurried away and returned just as quickly with a first aid kit in her hands. Motioning for us to sit on the couch, she planted herself in front of us, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, and went to work with patching our wounds.

I hissed and recoiled as she cleaned up my cuts, but she remained cautious and careful. My arms, face, and legs were soon covered in gauze and band aids.

"What happened to you two?" Izuku's mother asked. She gasped sharply, slapping her hands against her cheeks, and quickly shook her head. "I'm so sorry, forgive my rudeness! My name is Midoriya Inko. Are you a friend of Izuku's?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I just met him today," I said. He dipped his head. "My name is Koujiro Kizuna."

It was a surname Nemuri suggested for me. I wasn't legally Aizawa's child, meaning I wouldn't take his. Although, truthfully, I wouldn't want it anyway. It didn't quite flow off the tongue. Koujiro was written with the kanji for 'soul', 'change', and 'age'. The name Koujiro Kizuna was rather auspicious in of itself, I thought. It was there, on my birth certificate— the new one I received some time ago. It was _my_ name.

"It's wonderful to meet you," Inko said. "Now then— how did you get these injuries?"

Izuku, who had been silent this whole time, suddenly snapped his head up.

"W-We fell… into a thorn bush."

My mouth dropped open.

I was shocked, baffled, bewildered. The lie was so out there, so utterly ridiculous, not even a concerned mother who just wanted answers would believe that. Inko's brows furrowed incredulously, and she opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to think of what to say. Ultimately, no words were spoken.

"I-I see…" she said. "Kizuna, would you like something to eat? You should call your parents and tell them you're here."

"Oh. Right," I nodded, holding back a smile. I doubted Aizawa would answer his phone. Despite this, I still followed Inko to where her landline was, and she smiled kindly at me. She signaled that she would be in the kitchen and left me alone. I dialed Aizawa's number and waited a few moments for the voicemail to come up.

To my surprise, it didn't.

"Did you burn the house down?" he asked over the phone. I frowned.

"_No,_" I huffed. "Um… I… kind of got into a fight."

"You _what?_"

"I saw these kids beating up this other kid so I beat them up for him. But they beat me up instead. So."

"You lost."

"I lost."

I heard his typical _Mm_ and rolled my eyes.

"Anyway, I'm at the kid's house," I continued. "His mom invited me in. And she patched me up. She's really nice."

"Do you need me to pick you up?"

"Not really."

"Good. Make sure you're home before five."

"'Kay. See you later."

"Mhmm."

I hung up and sighed.

I trudged back to Izuku, still on the couch, and plopped down next to him, my body half off the cushion. I didn't care. Whatever back problems awaited me was something future me would have to deal with.

I tilted my head in Izuku's direction. He stared at his hands, eyes solemn. Dull. He traced circles in his palm, lifelessly. This obviously bothered him more than I initially realized.

"You okay?" I asked, immediately wanting to slap myself for asking what was likely a very obvious question. _Of course he isn't. _He still looked up at me and forced a smile onto his face.

"I-I'm fine, Koujiro-san!" I wish I could tell him I knew he was lying. "Really, you don't have to worry!"

I could've taken this in several different ways. I could've shaken my head and told him that I could read thoughts and emotions; that he could never lie to me because I always knew the truth. I could've hugged him and tell him it was okay. I could've cracked a joke and lighten the mood. There were a million and one paths to take.

I created a millionth and second.

"Why'd you lie?"

Izuku gulped. I saw the tension slowly crawl into him. He raised his shoulders to his ears and sighed.

"Kacchan isn't a bad person…" he mumbled. "I really admire him! He's strong and brave— everything I'm not! We've been friends since we were really young, so…"

"You can't let him go."

Izuku shook his head.

"T-That isn't it!" he cried. "He's my _best_ friend!"

There it was again— that sadness. Wholly engulfing and almost maddening. It rippled off him like ocean waves, or maybe like a tsunami. I was being pulled under.

"Oh," was all I responded with.

It was a truth I don't think Izuku himself was aware of.

He was his _only_ friend.

And despite the abuse Izuku was subjected to at the hands of that boy, he still held onto him. I couldn't blame him. The loneliness would drive me mad.

This was usually the part in the story where I would reach out to him and offer him my warmth and friendship; tell him that I would be there for him, protect him from whoever wanted to hurt him, even if it included himself. This was supposed to be our happily ever after, but—

This was not most stories.

And unfortunately, I was not as personable as I wanted to be. I was, admittedly, crude and distant. My presence was something of an acquired taste. I hardly ever looked at my peers in class, let alone talk to them. My friendship would only make Izuku feel colder, lonelier, less like he had someone and more like he had no one. That wasn't something I could ever do to him. And I hated myself for failing him twice.

"Sorry," I said. It was all I could manage for now. "I, um… I gotta go. I shouldn't stay out too late."

"Already?" Izuku asked. Reluctantly, I nodded.

"Sorry. But maybe we'll see each other again?"

I turned on my heel and made my way to the front door before I gave him a chance to respond. Inko stepped out from the kitchen and into the hallway, and I turned to face her.

"Are you leaving, dear?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "I'm sorry. But thanks for patching me up, and offering me dinner. I really appreciate it."

"If you wait a few minutes, I can give you some—"

"No, thanks." I quickly shot down. "I have food at home."

I slipped on my shoes and tugged at the heel.

"But thanks again. It was nice meeting you, Midoriya-san. You too, Izuku-san. Take care."

I whirled around on my heel, opened the front door, and left.

I didn't realize how badly I needed oxygen until I stepped outside and my lungs wheezed for air. I wasn't choking or drowning, I knew this, and yet I still felt like my chest was about to burst. I traced my fingers over my scar and swallowed hard.

I was alive.

_I'm alive._

And with a heavy heart, I marched back home.

* * *

Aizawa didn't come home until later that night.

I collapsed onto my bed the moment I came home and didn't leave since. I curled up underneath the blankets, hoping the warmth would trick me into thinking it was Aizawa, but nothing could beat the real thing. I constantly replayed the day's repeated failures, let it permeate in my head and soak in my system. Then the self loathing came.

I questioned if I could still be a hero even if I was a terrible person. If I got the job done— protected the innocent and beat up the bad guys— did it matter what happened behind closed doors? By definition, a hero was someone who personified the ideals of courage, valiance, hard work, and justice. Of course, things have become a bit murky since this society was established, but as long as I got the job done I was still a hero.

_Right?_

Wrong. Because although people could hail me as a savior— one or one million, it didn't matter— I didn't want to be called such if I couldn't call _myself_ that. And if my actions, decisions, and failures today taught me one thing, it's that I wasn't hero ready. I was barely even hero capable.

I felt a sliver of happiness when I heard the front door open, followed by Aizawa's voice calling out my name. Yet, I didn't have the energy to move. In spite of the joy Aizawa's presence brought, the mere thought of getting up and exerting two hundred muscles to walk twenty feet made the idea of melting into a puddle all the more appealing. I waited for him to come to me.

In due time, he did.

"Kizuna."

I sighed.

Aizawa stood in the doorway for a few moments; waiting for me to respond, most likely. His footsteps glided across the floor and he pulled back my blanket, taking a good look at me.

"You were beat up pretty bad."

I shifted my head slightly.

"Yeah."

"I thought I trained you better."

"I'm stupid. And I suck." I squeezed my eyes shut. "It's not your fault. I'm just awful."

"Kizuna—"

"Just admit it."

"That's not—"

"Just tell me that I'm bad and useless and I shouldn't be a hero."

"Stop."

I did.

Aizawa's weight was suddenly on the bed, and his arms were wrapped around me. And because of that— feeling his warmth, and knowing he was here— the dam broke, and I immediately burst into tears.

I had hoped that sadness was something I left behind when I began settling into my new life. I was here, happy. Breathing. I had a bed to sleep in and food to eat. People who I cared for and things I wanted to protect. That was more than what countless people had. What business did I have being sad? I was ashamed of it. Ashamed I needed to be comforted at all.

"It's fine to be upset, but don't be so quick to give up on yourself, Kizuna," he said. "I know your potential better than anyone. If you want to be a hero, then you can."

I almost rejected his words because I was so sure the voice in my own head was the only one telling the truth. But Aizawa—

He never did things _just because_.

I know he knew the feelings I was currently going through. Questioning himself. Wondering if it was worth it to continue this path— but the hardships Aizawa experienced made the end reward all the more satisfying.

Aizawa didn't become a hero because he thought it was cool. He didn't become one for the fame, money, or luxury. It's because he cared. And that alone was enough to make him a great hero. He wasn't warm or tender, and words didn't always come easy to him, but him lying here with me was more than enough to prove that he gave a semblance of a shit.

I always knew I wanted to be like Aizawa. He gave me so much and the least I could do was make him proud. The fact he believed in me was enough to make me reconsider my life choices, because I sure as hell didn't believe in myself. It was during times like these that I needed a pillar and Aizawa never faltered.

That's when I decided.

I decided that I wouldn't become a hero because it was a trend, or because I wanted to be like everyone around me. Being a hero was more than just protecting others. There was a distinct difference between a good hero and a great one, and though the line was blurry to most, in my eyes it was crystal clear.

Good heroes protect people because they have to.

Great heroes protect people because they care.

And clinging to Aizawa's shirt, listening to his heartbeat, it all came to me at once.

I _did_ care.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for 54 favorites, 79 follows, and 27 reviews. It warms my heart that you all enjoy this story— or more accurately, that you enjoy _Kizuna's_ story. I hope the timeskip wasn't too jarring. I don't want to spend too much time on Kizuna's childhood because it's relatively normal aside from a few events, of which will be covered next chapter. That being said, next chapter will be the last chapter of these early years. The one after that will catch up to the series' first few episodes. Thank you for your kind words and sticking with me.


	8. Highway Slope

_"Don't be afraid of your fears. They're not there to scare you. They're there to let you know that something is worth it."_

* * *

**viii. highway slope**

* * *

"You should become a teacher."

The statement came as no surprise to Aizawa. His gaze peeked above the rim of his mug as he took a sip of coffee, eyes filled with indifference. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Seems everyone shares that thought," he said in a flat tone. I blinked a few times.

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh." I shrugged my shoulders again. "I just think it'd be good for you. You taught me how to read and write, after all. But you don't like kids. So maybe you'd be better off with people a little older."

"Yūei won't bring you in just because I'm a teacher there."

I choked on the breath I inhaled, completely caught off guard by his response. I've told him my dream of attending Yūei, sure, but I wasn't expecting to be called out on it. My cheeks quickly burned red in embarrassment and I could no longer hold eye contact.

"That isn't what I meant," I grumbled, looking at my feet. "Sekijiro, Hizashi, and Nemuri all teach there. Why don't you?"

"Because it isn't my job to babysit a bunch of whiny teens."

I snorted. "I bet you said the same thing about me."

_I did_, his thoughts read. I could barely contain my smile.

"Nemuri has been especially tenacious," Aizawa continued, setting down his coffee. "It's annoying."

"Quit being a grouch." I reached across the table and pulled on his shirt sleeve. "At least entertain her."

"I already have other responsibilities," Aizawa sighed. "I've been assigned to a case dealing with troublesome villains."

"Aren't all villains troublesome?"

"These villains in particular are a pain in my ass. We think they're related to this new drug cycling in the system."

I arched a brow. Reports of these so called 'Impromptu Villains' have been appearing more on the news lately; powerful villains who often had no ulterior motive for causing chaos. They just did. I wasn't very surprised to know that Aizawa had been assigned to a case like this. He was often given cases that were generally unknown to the general public— mine for example— and although mine had been closed due to years of no leads, it seemed there was a bit more luck on the heroes' side this time. Mostly because the police didn't have to solely rely on the memory of an amnesiac girl.

"That _does_ sound troublesome," I groaned. Aizawa said nothing as he stood up.

"I have to go out on patrol soon," he said. "Sekijiro is off today. I'll drop you at his place."

"Mmkay."

I slid off the chair to head to my room and get dressed, but just before I left the kitchen, I whirled around on my heel to face Aizawa.

"By the way," I started. He turned to face me. "It's boring having to stay home all the time when no one is available. When are you gonna get a girlfriend?"

"Kizuna!"

* * *

I ran to the other side of the yard, the soles of my feet well acquainted with the grass. A series of giggles and squeals escaped my throat as a giant white creature lumbered toward me, pink tongue dangling between its jaws. It barked and jumped into the air while the dog behind it followed its actions, their eyes locked firmly on the ball that levitated just out of the reach of their snouts.

The fun part about Telekinesis was that playing games with dogs was all the more entertaining. As the ball whizzed through the air, twisting and whirling in loops and figure eights, the dogs would try to follow, dashing back and forth and clumsily tripping over each other in an attempt to reach it. To entertain them, I dropped the ball, and the dog with a snowy coat immediately lunged for it, gripping it in its jaws. The dog behind it, also sporting white fur, yipped and jumped on top of it, trying to get its own share of the toy.

"Melon! C'mere girl!" I cooed, kneeling down and patting my knees to get her attention. Why she was named that was beyond me, but she liked it enough to respond. She was the larger, white dog— a Great Pyrenees— and readjusting the ball between her teeth, she trotted toward me, gracefully ignoring the slightly smaller Samoyed bouncing behind her heels.

Melon dropped the ball at my feet and suddenly plopped to the ground, rolling over onto her back. Her fellow canine, Kaia, did the same, both of them looking at me expectantly. I rolled my eyes and crouched down, rubbing my hand over their bare stomachs.

"Kizuna!"

My head perked up at the voice. Sekijiro stood in the doorway leading to the backyard, waving me inside. Whistling to the dogs, I stood up and made my way over to him. Melon and Kaia were behind me in moments.

As soon as I stepped inside, I was met with a series of various aromas. The savory richness of pork mixed with the piquant smell of onions, both evened out by the milder saltiness of potatoes. I immediately made a beeline to the dining area, where two steaming bowls of nikujaga were awaiting, accompanied by rice and miso soup.

"Yes!" I cheered quietly. I took my seat at the table and, before Sekijiro could even sit in his own, I began digging in. Aizawa was by no means a bad cook— far from it, actually— but there were things Sekijiro made that not even Aizawa could top. Nikujaga was one of them.

"_So_ good," I whimpered, hissing and recoiling back as I bit my cheek. "Ouch."

"That's what happens when you eat with your mouth full," Sekijiro said, jabbing his chopsticks in my direction. I stuck my tongue out at him. His dogs sat at our feet, whining and nudging our ankles, silently begging to be fed.

"Out, you two," Sekijiro huffed. He chucked a piece of pork in another direction and the pair bolted. He had two other dogs in the past: Taro and Shiki. After Shiki gave birth to a litter of five pups, all of which were given away, she fell ill and unfortunately had to be put down. Taro was a foster dog and thus would have eventually been given away regardless, but when you form a bond, it doesn't matter how long you've been with them— watching them leave hurts all the same.

"I gotta question," I said after carefully chewing and swallowing a piece of potato. Sekijiro looked at me.

"Shoot."

"Has Aizawa ever had a girlfriend?"

Sekijiro choked on whatever food was in his mouth. After thumping his fist against his chest a few times, he coughed and cleared his throat, glaring at me.

"W-Where did this come from all of a sudden?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Curious, I guess," I said. "I mean, he doesn't seem like the type to get a girlfriend, but it makes me wonder if he's ever liked anyone. Like, Nemuri. She's really pretty, funny, and kind, you know? But I also just kind of want someone to talk to whenever he leaves for work."

_Ten year olds are something else,_ he thought. I smirked.

"I also think he should be a teacher at Yūei, but that's something different," I continued. Sekijiro raised a brow.

"Why a teacher?" he asked. "You know how he is."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he can't do it. Aizawa cares a lot. He just doesn't show it."

"Well—" Sekijiro paused, as if mulling over my words, taking a moment to process them fully. I knew I had won when he sighed. "Yeah. You're right."

"Maybe he can find a girlfriend there."

"You're just a little schemer, aren't you?"

I snickered. For one reason or another, Sekijiro suddenly became more dull, poking at his food and remaining uncharacteristically quiet. I sensed embarrassment from him, mild but gradually growing in intensity.

"What's up?" I asked, my question prompting him to look my way again. "What's got you all flustered?"

"I'm not _flustered_," he responded, brows furrowed. "Er— Aizawa and I have… history."

I easily understood the implications behind those words. I'm sure my entire face lit up, because a smile instantly came to my face and my eyes widened like it was Christmas.

"Wait, wait." I gasped and slapped my hands on my cheeks. "Did you two—?!"

"It was _way_ before you. Like, back in high school," Sekijiro grumbled, cheeks turning red.

"You two _dated?!_" I practically screeched. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and grumbling a string of sentences under his breath. Most likely how he regretted saying anything at all.

"It was in our second year," he sighed. "We knew _of_ each other, but didn't really _know_ each other until then."

"So what changed?"

"I was pretty good friends with Hizashi. He brought me over to sit with him and Aizawa to eat lunch one day."

"And you guys clicked?"

"We clicked. Though nothing really happened until our third year."

I was practically bouncing in my seat from excitement. "Who asked who out first?"

"Well…" Sekijiro rubbed his chin. "I guess _technically_ I did."

"So then… why'd you break up?"

Sekijiro shrugged. For some reason, that made me think he didn't exactly know, either.

"I guess… by the time we debuted as heroes, we both wanted something different out of our careers. That, and we were very worried about the public knowing. We kept it under wraps, but once you're in the spotlight, privacy is nothing short of a luxury."

"Yeah." I nodded. "I get it. So… do you still have feelings for him?"

"He'll always have a special place in my heart, kiddo."

It was his own unique way of saying yes. Even if he flat out denied out, I could still feel the love. It was released as waves; strong, intense, passionate. It was deep and fiery, but also gentle and calm. It flickered and fluctuated but remained powerful. Love.

Placing my hand over my chest, I smiled.

* * *

After we finished eating and Sekijiro put the dishes away, we retreated into the living room to relax for the rest of the day. I curled up beside him, my head resting on his lap as he flicked through channels to see if anything interesting is on.

"Wanna watch any movies?" he asked.

"No," I responded. "I only like horror. And you don't like horror."

"Neither does Aizawa," Sekijiro snorted. I puffed out my cheeks. "Wonder who you got that from."

"Hizashi likes them."

"Ah."

I adjusted myself so I was on my back with my knees in the air. I folded my hands against my stomach while the dogs bounded into the living room and laid down beneath us. I lowered my arm and ran my hand over Kaia's fur, rubbing between her ears. I didn't watch TV often because there usually wasn't anything interesting on. I amassed a small library of books over the years that I preferred to indulge in. Aizawa didn't like the TV either. He worried it would rot my brain.

Sekijiro flipped the channel to the news to see what the weather for the week was going to be like, but the forecast was interrupted by a woman in a pristine gray suit standing in an alleyway. A mob of police cars were behind her as officers escorted away a behemoth of a creature. Six arms were restrained in specialized handcuffs attached to leashes that the officers used to safely take him into a truck.

"I'm here at the site of the latest attack by the villain dubbed _Octoid!_ This is yet another incident in a string of rampages caused by enhanced villains! There was only one reported injury—"

My heart stopped.

"— Pro Hero _Eraserhead—"_

Sekijiro and I immediately stood up. My heart began pounding against my chest, rumbling and racing. Like it was begging to be let out so it could scream for itself. Sekijiro turned to me but I was already racing for the door and putting on my shoes.

"Kizuna—"

"I have to see him!"

I ran out the door.

* * *

I knew fear.

I could only assume my early years, before I was rescued, were led by fear. I could tell in my actions and behaviors. Nightmares plagued me, even when bad thoughts didn't. I was apprehensive near blood and had panic attacks in the presence of blades. I was naturally defensive, remaining alert for any sign of danger. And I often had to will myself into staying when my fight or flight response activated. My body often reacted before my mind did, as if it was conditioned to prepare for the worst. Even with the comfort and security of my current life, the anxiety that came with never knowing what the next second could bring was enough to put my paranoia into overdrive.

And despite my near death experience, the recovery from it, and the aftermath, not even that could compare to how fucking _horrified_ I was now.

I _thought_ I knew fear. I was wrong.

I practically burst out of the passenger seat the moment Sekijiro parked his car. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, thoughts racing and heart pumping. Even with the hospital blasting warm air upon entering, I still felt like I was freezing.

"Aizawa!" I yelled as I ran up to the receptionist desk. People turned their heads in my direction, but I didn't give half a shit. "Aizawa Shōta, where is he?! Please let me see him!"

"Kizuna!" Sekijiro called after me. His hands were soon on my shoulders as he knelt down to my height. "Calm down— you have to _calm down_."

As much as I wanted to fight back against him and continue to demand for Aizawa, I knew creating a scene would cause me to get kicked out. So I held onto him, on the verge of tears, but I held on.

"W-What is your relation to him?" the receptionist asked, scared damn near half to death. I stilled at the question, because it was one I often asked myself, though I was far too embarrassed to even consider the answers. Slowly, I turned to her, and though my mind wanted to say one thing, my mouth didn't comply.

"His ward," I answered.

Saying that didn't feel right.

* * *

"Aizawa?"

I slid the door to his hospital room open, expecting to see him lying on the bed, hooked to a bunch of wires and machines. I told myself to anticipate the worst. So when I instead saw him sitting on the edge of the bed with a shoulder brace, speaking to someone who didn't look like a nurse or doctor but was dressed in a hoodie— my brain defaulted to the next thing that terrified me.

That this person had an intent to harm.

Without thinking, knowing, feeling, I flew forward and held out my arm. The energy that surged from my head rippled forward as I let my fear and rage take over.

"Get away from him!" I shouted, pushing the stranger up against the wall. He let out a strangled breath, pinned and unable to move. His blue eyes went wide and he shifted his head from side to side, breaths heavy and labored.

"Kizuna!" Aizawa was suddenly in front of me. "Stop! He's not here to hurt me!"

"What?"

"This kid here _saved_ me," Aizawa reiterated, looking over his shoulder at the stranger. "Let him go. If it weren't for him, a dislocated shoulder would've been the least of my worries."

I immediately dropped my arm and pulled Aizawa in for a tight hug. I was worried, frightened, confused and embarrassed, but most of all, I was _relieved. _I wiped away tears threatening to spill over and clung to him for dear life.

"She was worried sick, you know," Sekijiro muttered. "Nearly caused a scene downstairs when she thought she couldn't see you."

My face flushed in embarrassment. I looked up at Aizawa, my gaze all but confirming what Sekijiro said. Aizawa sighed and placed his hand on my head, facing me with a frown.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a dislocated shoulder. It was my fault, I was reckless." He jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Go. Apologize to the kid. You know better."

Growing up, my pride is what often shielded my ability to know if and when I was wrong, but I've learned within the last year that there was nothing worse and more foolish than baseless confidence. I knew that my fear is what caused me to lash out, and Aizawa expected much more from someone like me. The scolding was well deserved.

With a sigh, I tightly clutched the hem of my shirt and tramped toward the stranger, still on the floor and quivering, but he plastered a nervous smile on his face.

"Um…" I started. I was never good at apologies. "I'm sorry for… um, doing that. I thought— I mean, Aizawa's real important to me, so… sorry."

Slowly, he got to his feet and laughed a bit, kneeling over to reach my height. Not that he was exceptionally tall, anyway.

"I-It's no problem!" he said, ruffling my hair. I flinched at the contact and took a small step back. "How old are ya? I didn't know Aizawa had a kid!"

"She's not _my_ kid," Aizawa hissed, eyes glowing crimson. Sekijiro groaned and shook his head.

"He isn't, like, my father," I chuckled. "He just takes care of me."

"I get it, I get it!" The boy leaned closer to me, eyes pulled into a squint. "Seriously, that guy is super scary. How do you do it?"

"I've… gone through worse."

My hand consciously made its way to my throat. Theoretically, there _was_ nothing worse than death or even coming close to it. Especially when you enjoyed being alive.

"You're braver than me, kid," he breathed out, hands on his hips. "My name's Koichi, by the way! I was helping Aizawa out with a villain!"

_That barely counted as help_, Aizawa's thoughts grumbled. _Eh. He saved my life, I guess._

"Thanks for saving him, Koichi-san," I said, still shaking slightly. "Are you a hero?"

"Uhhhhh… y-y-yeah! Yeah, you can call me a hero!"

Even without any sort of mind reading I could tell he was lying, but I decided to entertain him regardless. I exhaled a deep breath and took a moment to calm my nerves.

"That's cool. I wanna be a hero, too," I said and smiled up at him. "Honestly, Koichi-san, you're kinda lame. But, you helped out Aizawa, so it's not like I can hold that against you."

Koichi laughed, apparently unfazed by my comment. Not that I was trying to insult him— so I was relieved he didn't take it personally.

"Thanks! You're pretty cool yourself!" He pulled a face mask up over his nose and shuffled to the door. "Well, I'll be taking my leave! See ya folks!"

He was gone in the blink of an eye.

I sighed again, letting out the final remnants of any anxiety. I walked back over to Aizawa and climbed onto his bed, sitting beside him, while Sekijiro stepped further into the room and crossed his arms.

"You'll be okay?" he asked.

"Eh. It's nothing I haven't been through," Aizawa responded. "They can pop it back in place. I should be home tonight."

"You should eat dinner with us. Sekijiro made nikujaga," I said. Sekijiro shrugged.

"If you want to."

Aizawa clicked his tongue and looked at me. "Might as well. You won't ever shut up if I don't."

I grinned.

"You're the best, Aizawa."

* * *

I kept quiet of the fact I knew Aizawa and Sekijiro were a thing in the past, and just let the conversation flow naturally when we left the hospital. Perhaps I had a false view on what ex lovers were and how they were supposed to act. I figured, like in the movies, they should be awkward, borderline spiteful and bitter. But I of all people should know that life is nothing like what's on the screen.

They were natural, normal— but they were also mature and level headed individuals who could push the past to the side. Awkward or not. They spoke, bantered, and bickered like any pair of friends. They shared memories. Sekijiro brought up the possibility of Aizawa being the teacher again; he responded with a grumble.

"I'll think about it," he mumbled. For some reason, it made me think of what Sekijiro said earlier when I asked if he still had feelings for Aizawa. Maybe Sekijiro had a special place in Aizawa's heart, too.

When we got home later that night, I immediately collapsed onto the couch and heaved out a loud, dramatic sigh.

"Get up, Kizuna," Aizawa said. "It's way past your bedtime. You have school tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah." I lifted myself up. "Is your shoulder better?"

He rolled it to prove himself directly. "I'm fine. Go."

"Wait. Before I do, can I talk to you about something?"

"Mm."

I patted the spot beside me. Rolling his eyes, Aizawa lumbered over and sat down, glancing at me. A breath escaped my lips and I readjusted my position so I sat with my knees to my chest, and I tightly hugged them.

"I've been thinking earlier, kinda. Why I wanna go to Yūei and why being a hero means so much to me," I started.

"Why?"

"Because—" I took a deep breath. "Because I don't wanna be afraid anymore."

I wasn't very astute or conscious of my own feelings. I was always living off of everyone else's; struggling to understand the myriad of emotions that constantly swirled within my own being because of my subconscious ability to detect and, by extension, absorb them. This often made how I felt muddled. In the books I read, the protagonist was always so gifted in describing how they felt. They were never sad they and their best friend got into a fight. They were _downtrodden_ and _melancholy._ Anger was not a word used to describe their feelings towards injustice. It made them _vexed_ and _enraged._ They weren't happy when their crush asked them out. They were _elated_ and _overjoyed_.

Fear was the only emotion I could ever accurately describe because it's the only one I've ever lived with. It was like a friend on my shoulder, whispering to me when I least expected it, taking over my mind when I didn't. It never left, instead made a home out of me to remind me that it existed in case I ever forgot. In essence, it had become a part of me.

Today, I think, taught me something crucial. Fear in of itself was fine. I don't think anyone would ever hold it against me for being afraid. But the moment I used that fear to lash out at others, use it as an excuse to run away, that's the moment I'd become not a hero, but a coward. It would be the most unheroic thing I could do. And I, who was so sure my resolve alone was enough to get me where I wanted, did exactly that. I was wrong.

I was so, _so_ wrong.

Because I was so unused to expressing my emotions, as I spoke to Aizawa I didn't exactly know when to stop or even how. I just kept talking, and talking, and talking. And he listened. I told him about what I did to that boy a year ago— how I left him to fend for himself because I refused to admit that I wanted a friend, too. I told him that I worried about who I was; that I became aware that my sense of self extended far beyond my name and personality. I told him I was afraid of being too much like him and not enough like myself.

I ended my rant with an apology. I wasn't good at them, but I felt like Aizawa deserved it. I had misinterpreted the title he fought so hard for, thought I could make it mine because he made it his. I knew of the hardships that went into becoming a hero, but I remained blissfully ignorant of the fact that I had to put effort into it, too. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. I had to be here in the present rather than think and dream and hope.

In the end, I told him I no longer wanted to live a life dictated by fear. I wanted to live on my own terms, make my own decisions; not because it would promise my own safety but rather ensure everyone else's. If I cared as much as I said I did, then I would have to prove it. I wanted to.

I didn't initially realize the tears on my face were none other than my own. When the final words spilled out of my mouth, I looked at Aizawa. Maybe for some sort of approval. I wasn't sure. He placed his hand on my head, and he sighed.

"You're not selfish. You're not a coward," he said. "You're also ten. You've got a long way to go before you start thinking of that stuff."

I chuckled and wiped my tears. "I guess getting a head start isn't that bad."

"Mm," he grunted. "If you want to be a hero, Kizuna, do it because you believe you can."

"Do you think I can?"

"Does it matter?"

"I value your opinion."

Aizawa snorted and got to his feet. "C'mon, kid. Bed time."

"You didn't answer my question," I said, standing up with him. "Do you?"

"I figured that much was obvious."

"It is. I just wanted to hear you say it."

Aizawa flicked my forehead and I hissed, rubbing the spot, which happened to be where my marking was. Pouting at him, I gave his arm a quick slap as I made my way to my room. As I walked ahead a few steps, I suddenly stopped and turned around on my heel to face him.

"Aizawa?"

"Mn?"

"Thank you."

"For?"

I smiled.

_Everything_.

* * *

**A/N: **I spent a long time debating if I wanted to post this or not, so that's part of the reason why I took so long to update. I apologize. I've also been absolutely swamped with real life stuff, particularly school, which has greatly hindered my ability to write. These chapters were all written in bulk, so I was able to post them in regularly and work on the next one, thus keeping a steady queue. Unfortunately, my writing has come to a complete stand still as of late. Hopefully that will change as the semester is more than halfway over.

Thank you all for the continued support. I'll likely take a break from updating after this so I can continue to write up a queue of chapters and then post them on a regular schedule. Please bear with me. I appreciate all of your kind words, favorites, and follows. It truly means a lot to me.

Thank you for reading, and I'll see you all next time— whenever that may be.


End file.
